


Remember When Icarus Flew?

by amarillogrande



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Bastille - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Fallen Angels, Fallen Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, Marijuana, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Switching, Wall Sex, icarus - Freeform, song inspired fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Icarus is flying too close to the sun<br/>Icarus's life, it has only just begun<br/>This is how it feels to take a fall<br/>Icarus is flying towards an early grave</p><p>Castiel is human now. And Dean wishes they could have been gentle about it. That they could have eased Cas into this lifestyle, with time to adjust, time to deal. But with Crowley and fallen angels and all of the shit that had been dumped into their lap…there just wasn’t time. Cas had been wrenched into his new human life, thrown in headfirst, and Dean and Sam just had to soldier on like they always did, hoping that Cas would catch up.</p><p>But he hadn’t. It had destroyed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially just a little thing, inspired by the song Icarus, by Bastille. It then turned into this monster of a fic that has taken me forever to finish.
> 
> In case you're interested, the song is [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVgeTLWcpxs):  
> It was also inspired by this [post](http://nestingcas.tumblr.com/post/54841395959/greek-mythology-meme-castiel-as-icarus):  
> in which characters from Supernatural are compared to figures in Greek myth. 
> 
> Probably will end up being about 4~6 chapters, to be finished as soon as possible.
> 
> Tumblr: [x](http://chevrolangels.tumblr.com/post/72139150055/remember-when-icarus-flew)  
> 

Cas is lounging out on the front steps of the bunker. They can’t really be called front steps, seeing as they don’t really have a porch, but Cas is sitting on them anyway, back propped up against the sloping walls that lead down to the entrance of the bunker. It’s pitch black outside, and Dean can’t really see much, just what’s illuminated by the not-quite-full moon. Cas is drinking something from a white cup, the smell sharp and bitter against the cool night air.

Shit. Where did he get that? Was he on to fucking cough syrup now?

But as Dean walks up to him, he sees the bottle lying by his side, gleaming a pale green in the moonlight. Not cough syrup then. Looks like he’s through most of it already.

Cas has been sitting outside for hours, like he does almost every night, with some form of alcohol to keep him company. Dean sees him top off the cup and take another sip.

Well. At least he was being considerate and not drinking straight from the bottle.

Dean snorts. Who was he kidding? He knows Cas will just finish it off by himself anyway.

Cas doesn’t even look at him as Dean clears the last steps, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms. He’s got this dreamy look on his face as he stares up into the night.

Dean just stands for a minute, watching.

 

Castiel blinks and looks up into the sky. It’s a dark blue expanse, only broken by the occasional light blue streak, breaking up the darkness. _The Milky Way_ , he thinks. The entire scope of the heavens is so wide, so endless, filled with so many wonders. An exploding supernova, dots of light twinkling, the faint colors of the planets. Castiel remembers when he could count the stars in their entirety, stand on their surface as they exploded, feel their heat burn through his lungs.

The alcohol coursing through his veins made everything brighter, more perfect. Flawless, actually, as he closed his eyes and felt their slow movement through the universe. The leisurely passage of the stars, the earth below, the cosmic dance—it was fascinating. Castiel couldn’t help but stare in awe.

He wishes he could be up there, dive up into the light and feel the beauty of creation the way he used to, back when he meant something. Back when he mattered.

 

He’s vaguely aware of Dean’s presence, but he doesn’t want to be. He wants to watch the stars.

And maybe, if he was lucky, Dean would watch with him.

 

Dean had walked up with the intention of being nice. He really had. But when he sees Cas with that stupid look on his face, blissed out on alcohol, he snaps.

 

“Cas.”

 

Cas doesn’t even look at him. He just keeps staring upwards with the same vague expression, his free hand tracing patterns in the dirt.

Dean tries to keep the anger out of his voice. But it’s hard. Keeping calm has never been his style. His style is brash, it’s anger and guilt—it’s preferring a shouting match to quiet discussion. And Cas didn’t really respond to calm, rational thought anymore.

“Cas. I have to talk to you.”

Cas finally looks at him, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t say anything. He just smiles that enigmatic smile and lifts the cup to his lips again, drinking deep.

Dean’s voice hitches.

“Are you drunk?”

 

Cas puts the cup down, repressing a chuckle. “What do you think?”

Dean swallows, looking down and clasping his hands.

Shit.

How could he ever talk to Cas, really talk to him, if he was never really Cas anymore? All he was now was this…this _mess_ , masquerading as his best friend.

Cas stretches out languidly and Dean has to force himself to concentrate. He snaps out a question.

“What is that, anyway?”

Cas stretches again, rubbing his forehead.

“Well, you know—“

He clumsily sits up, suddenly eager.

“I’m always on the lookout for the next big thing—most liquor doesn’t do it for me, perhaps some residual traces of my previous tolerance—“

“Cas.”

“So, of course I’ve been experimenting, and usually I prefer to mix my substances—but I had never heard of this before—so when I walked into the liquor store, saying, 'give me the strongest thing you’ve got'—“

“CAS.”

“And he shoved this bottle towards me, absinthe, he said—and Jesus, Dean, it’s wonderful, I feel like I’m flying again—“

“Fuck—Cas.”

Dean’s face is in shadow.

“Stop.”

 

Castiel looks at him. “What?”

 

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.

Cas lets out a muffled snort and grabs the bottle again. He pours freely into the now-soggy cup, not seeming to notice when a good half of it misses and spills over the steps and his shirt. Dean watches as he sets the bottle back down, the glass clinking against the concrete.

Castiel takes a generous swig, and he sucks a breath in through his teeth as the drink hits his throat, the burn filling his whole body. Sure, it hurt going down. It was downright horrible, actually, but the sense of floating that came afterwards…how his joints and limbs were suspended, how he felt loose, every part of him relaxed…oh. It was worth it. It calmed him, soothed away the lines on his forehead, made him forget the terrible things he had seen in his dreams the night before. And right now, it was the only thing that was making this conversation with Dean tolerable. Every exchange they’d had recently had been nothing but insults and judgmental glares. Castiel’s sick of it.

“Cas.”

A voice breaks through the blissful fog he had started to sink into, and he remembers Dean’s still there. Ugh. He just wants him to leave already. The stars needed to be watched, and Dean’s yelling didn’t let him devote the proper amount of attention to the sky.

Even the smallest most distant things deserved to be loved.

 

“We’ve got an issue."

Castiel sighs. “And what issue is that?”

But he knows exactly what this is about. He knows exactly why Dean is confronting him, in the dark, why he’s uneasily shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I think you know, Cas.”

Castiel turns his head, not anticipating the heavy weight of it, and he ends up swiveling stupidly to fix his gaze on Dean.

“Do I.”

It’s not really a question.

 

Dean sacrifices his standing position and kneels down next to him, putting them on an even level. He’s looking at the ground.

“The drinking, Cas.”

Castiel wants to hit him. He had no right, absolutely no right—

“It wasn’t bad first, and fuck, Cas—I was happy you were finally starting to ease up a little, but—“

He hesitates, twisting his hands.

“But it’s bad now. You gotta admit that.”

 

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He feels the hatred showing on his face and he makes no attempt to hide it.

Dean looks away briefly, before resigning himself, dragging his gaze back to Castiel.

“Look. I’ve talked to Sam and…and we’ve agreed. You can’t do this while you’re with us.”

Castiel looks up. Does that mean what he thinks it means?

Dean swallows, and when he looks at him, his eyes are hard.

“Either you pull yourself together, or you’ll have to find some other place to go.”

 

Castiel senses the words, sees them float out of Dean’s mouth into his ears, feels them sink into his brain. He lets out a short, soft laugh that quickly turns sour.

“So.”

He leans back again, finding the cup, taking another deep pull, feeling his eyes sting. “That’s what we’ve come to. An ultimatum.”

Dean sighs. “Cas—“

Castiel cuts him off with a vague wave of fingers. “Oh no, don’t worry. I’ve been expecting it.” He struggles to sit up, using the wall behind him for support. “That was always how you did things.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.

“What?”

Castiel laughs. “Dean, how many times have I asked you to trust me?” He leans forward, fixing him with the most cynical gaze he can manage. “How many times have I asked you to not only see black and white, but to look in between?”

There’s something dangerous in Dean’s expression, something Castiel doesn’t think he’s seen before, but he can’t stop himself.

“You are a creature of all or nothing. And to tell the truth, it’s rather infuriating sometimes.” Castiel runs a hand through his unwashed hair. “Like right now.”

Dean’s mouth tightens, but his green gaze doesn’t drop. Castiel wants to fall into those eyes. Even now, when they’re staring at him with a furious expression that Castiel knows is entirely his fault. How many times had he caused Dean’s brow to crease with worry and anger? Beautiful, perfect Dean.

Castiel’s floating again, he’s not even conscious of moving forward, he just needs to get closer to those eyes.

“Humans are such strange creatures.” Castiel leans in, feeling the rough concrete under his hands as he inches forward. “You are the only animals gifted with speech, yet you refuse to communicate.”

He reaches out a finger and pokes Dean in the forehead. Dean’s so surprised by the touch he doesn’t even try to bat his hand away. He’s stunned for a moment, then shakes himself and shrinks back a little, perhaps repulsed by Castiel’s appearance, or the smell of absinthe on his breath. Castiel isn’t surprised. He is repulsive. He doesn’t blame Dean from wanting to get away.

But he has to try, try to keep him, to think of anything that will bring him back in, make those green eyes flash again.

“Do you know that bees can communicate the exact location and distance of a food source from the hive, all through dance?” He blurts out. “They don’t even talk and they can convey more than you ever could.” He’s giggling and gesturing wildly, flailing his hands in front of Dean’s face. “It’s beautiful really, I mean, when I watched them—“

Dean catches his wrist, and Castiel’s voice dies in his throat.

“Cas, focus.”

Castiel stares at him. Dean looks flustered and drops his hand, backing away. Castiel sways a little with the breeze. What had he been saying? He shakes his head. He was trying to be mad at something. No, someone. Was it Dean?

“Cas.”

Dean’s voice brings him back to earth.

“I need an answer.”

His tone is softer now, but it makes Castiel wary. He’s not really sure why. This was odd. This was different. He could deal with an angry Dean. That’s what he could understand. Perhaps the only thing he understood about him anymore.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that you were the one in charge,” Castiel bites back at him, trying to get a rise out of him, anything. “Are you our fearless leader now?”

Something about Castiel’s words make him tense and harden, his eyes burning with anger.

“Don’t—Cas, I—“

He stops, takes a deep breath.

“I don’t want to order you around, Cas, but I do expect you to be fucking functional when we’re on the job.” Dean’s words are short, like it’s hard for him to even breathe with Cas in front of him, disdainful, rebellious, existing.

“I don’t give a shit what you do with your nights, but you can’t be like this if we’re working a case.” His fingers scrabble against his palms as he clenches his fists.

“I’m not about to let myself get killed because of your drunken ass.”

Castiel looks up at him. He hates him. He hates him so much. He hates his refusal to talk to him, he hates his stupid perfect mouth, he hates the way he never trusts him, even after he had done everything for him, gave everything for him, again, and again. He hates the way Dean always shoves him away.

Castiel finally spits out a response. “Fine.”

He sees a small flicker of relief cross Dean’s face, before the mask of anger slides back into place. Castiel thinks its over, but then Dean turns and looks at him disdainfully.

“You sure you’re gonna remember making that promise?”

Castiel pulses with anger. Unbelievable.

He closes his eyes briefly, letting out a short laugh before turning back to him, a cocky grin spreading over his face.

“Would you like me to write it down?” He gives him an arrogant smile and adopts a lilting voice, pretending to trace words in the air. “I, Castiel, do hereby promise to only drown myself in alcohol whenever the Righteous Winchester Brothers don’t need me to clean up their messes.”

Dean’s eyes harden.

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Castiel pokes his tongue into his cheek and bares his teeth.

“Want me to sign it, too?”

Dean stares at him for a second.

“Fuck you, Cas.”

He turns around, and heads down the steps. Castiel slumps against the concrete. Seems that’s how most of their conversations ended these days. A snarled “Fuck you,” and an angry exit.

He thinks that that’s it, that it’s over, but Dean stops on the stairs, and his voice filters through the cool night air, heavy with something Castiel can’t quite describe.

“You don’t want to be doing this, Cas.”

Castiel bristles, not willing to let it go.

“Hypocrisy is a sin, Dean.”

He sees Dean’s jaw clench at that. Castiel smiles, even though he finds no joy in antagonizing him. But for some reason, he wanted Dean to believe that he did.

He still can’t see his face, but his voice is full of pain. “You don’t need this, Cas.” Dean turns around, and Castiel can see every feature of his face outlined in the moonlight.

“Really, I know I’ve got no right, but—“

Dean stops, not sure what he’s trying to say. He’s staring at him intently.

Castiel avoids his eyes.

“Cas, this isn’t you.”

A hot burst of anger flares in his chest at Dean’s words. He laughs and turns his head to the side, thinking for a second. Then he turns back to Dean, fixing him with the iciest glare he can manage.

“You don’t know shit about me.”

Dean blinks. What the fuck?

His mind scrambles, trying to piece words together. “What?“

Cas’s voice is bright and hard.

“You don’t know anything about me, Dean.”

Dean stares at him a second before answering.

“What are you talking about?” He snaps.

Cas snorts and looks down at his hands. “You think you know who I am?” He picks at his fingernails. “I severely doubt it.”

Dean stares. What the hell was he talking about?

Cas still doesn’t look at him. He continues.

“No, you don’t know me. You don’t care about who I am. All you care about is what I can give you.” He pauses briefly as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, shuddering out his words.

“You need Castiel, angel of the Lord. You need his powers. You need your…” he rolls around the words in his mouth before spitting them out, like a curse. “Blunt little instrument.”

Dean’s stomach drops. Cas’s face is a hard mask of pain and hurt. Dean hears an echo of those words, drumming a tattoo in the back of his mind, a sick reminder of what his life used to be. _You’re nothing. You’ve never been anything except a tool. Good little solider. Daddy’s blunt little instrument._

Dean’s throat is dry, but he has to speak.

“Don’t you say that.”

Cas doesn’t move.

“Don’t you ever say that.” His voice is shaking. “How can you—Cas, that’s not—“

He takes a deep breath. “That’s not what you are to us.”

Cas licks his lips and rolls his neck, bringing his head around to throw a scornful look in Dean’s direction. “Then what? What do you need me for?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He can’t look away from that sapphire blue gaze, trapping him, reeling him in.

Castiel’s eyes are full of pain. “What do you need me for, Dean?” His voice has dropped to an agonized whisper. Dean hears the deeper meaning beneath it, the real question that he can’t answer, the one he doesn’t dare think about.

Castiel stares at him, but Dean isn’t answering. A darkness is gathering at the corners of his eyes, threatening to pull him under, tearing away at his consciousness, but he can’t sleep yet. He can’t. He has to stay here, right here in this moment, with Dean. He always had to stay with Dean.

He feels the blackness hit him again, and he fights it, reeling and pitting himself against the shadows until Dean’s voice calls him back, the gloom parting in the face of that gentle murmur.

“Cas, I—I know what’s at the end of that bottle. And believe me…” Dean’s voice trails off. He swallows. “It’s nothing good.”

Castiel can’t move, but he has to say something. He thinks the liquor rips an honest answer out of him, and the words tumble from his lips before he can stop it.

“I have to, Dean.” His voice breaks on his name. “It’s the only place where I feel like myself again.”

Dean stares at him in silence for a second, teetering. His mouth opens and he looks like he’s about to say something.

Castiel holds his breath.

But Dean seems to make a decision and turns away from him. He goes back down the steps, slamming the door to the bunker behind him.

Castiel tries to stand up, get him back, make him listen, but he falls over. He gets one leg bent under him, using the rail behind him to stand up shakily. He looks back up at the sky, but now it looks dark and menacing. Instead of pretty lights in a blue expanse, Castiel only sees a void that he could fall into, that could swallow him whole. His head is spinning. He falls back down to the ground, his skin scraping against the hard surface and he comes to a stop, his cheek resting on the concrete. It feels good in a way. The cool roughness stops the whirl inside his head, and he closes his eyes.

When he wakes, it’s still fairly dark outside, but he sees the faint glow of the sun over the horizon. He rubs his eyes and sits up, a blanket falling off his shoulders. The bottle and cup are gone. Castiel looks at the soft blue material and wonders who put it there. He imagines soft hands draping it over his sleeping form, tucking him in, soothing his worried brow. Maybe it was…No. It didn’t matter.

Castiel stands, feeling a pounding in his head and the ache in his stiff muscles. His whole body hurts. He slouches back inside the bunker and makes his way to his room, not bothering to change his clothes. He falls down on the softness and lets sleep carry him away again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standing on the cliff face  
> Highest foe you'll ever grace  
> It scares me half to death  
> Look out to the future  
> But it tells you nothing  
> So take another breath  
> 

Dean hands a cup of coffee to Sam and fills up another one, setting it out for Cas for when he gets up.

If he gets up.

Dean’s still boiling from their argument last night, and part of him doubts Cas will remember any of it. He rarely did. There had been so many conversations like that—ones they shouldn’t have had, arguments they could have skipped over, and all because Cas always forgot about them the next morning.

Dean remembers the image of Cas’s face, as he sneered, as he laughed at him, and the anger flares through him again. He isn’t keeping it too well hidden either, because Sam raises an eyebrow as Dean sits back down at the table.

“You okay?”

Dean slams his plate down and starts stabbing angrily at his waffle.

“Fine.”

Sam frowns, but he doesn’t push it. Dean didn’t go into details about what happened last night, but he told Sam he got Cas’s promise to stop drinking.

Fucking Cas.

Dean sighs. He wishes they could have been gentle about it. That they could have eased Cas into this lifestyle, with time to adjust, time to deal. But with Crowley and fallen angels and all of the shit that had been dumped into their lap…there just wasn’t time. Cas had been wrenched into his new human life, thrown in headfirst, and Dean and Sam just had to soldier on like they always did, hoping that Cas would catch up.

But he hadn’t. It had destroyed him.

He knew they’d have to talk about it eventually. But it was even worse, because he knew exactly why Cas was doing this. Dean knew what it felt like, to forget, to have your troubles drowned in a third tumbler of bourbon, to feel your doubts and worries melt away, replaced with a warm burn. Shit, after he came back from hell, sometimes the only way he could get to sleep was with a belly full of liquor. 

But it had gone way past excess. It had gotten to the point where he was really scared for Cas. Shit, he was fucking terrified. But he didn’t know—he just didn’t know what to do.

He had tried to ignore it at first.

He ignored it when Cas picked up a fourth beer, even after he and Sam stopped after two.

He ignored it when the empty whiskey bottles started piling up.

He ignored it when Cas started acting different, when he was clumsier than usual, when he laughed. Now he seemed to have no verbal filter whatsoever—he swore like a sailor, and apparently he wasn't above blasphemy.

But when Cas emerged from his bedroom one morning with a goofy smile on his face, already reeking of alcohol, Dean couldn’t ignore it any longer.

So he went to Sam. They talked about it, they discussed it in low emotional tones in the kitchen of the bunker, finally arriving at the conclusion that he would have to clean up or go. If he needed professional help, if that’s what it would take, then they would get it for him. The hunter lifestyle didn’t exactly lend itself to sobriety, but Cas was on another level, one that wasn’t safe—for any of them. Dean wasn’t going to put Sammy in danger just because Cas couldn’t fucking control himself.

Sam had offered to talk to him, but Dean just shook his head. It was his responsibility. Cas was his responsibility.

Dean’s glad he was able to wheedle that agreement out of him, but the way he had to do it made him cringe. Dean hated arguing with him. Even if that was all they did nowadays. But Cas had agreed, at least momentarily. Dean isn’t sure he’ll keep his promise. He wasn’t sure who Cas was anymore.

“Good morning.”

Dean tenses, but doesn’t look up. Cas’s voice was even rougher right after he woke up, and hearing it like that always sent a shiver down his back.  
Sam smiles faintly up at him as Cas goes over to the counter, pausing as he sees the mug of coffee set out for him. He picks it up and walks over to the table. Dean still doesn’t look at him. He just keeps poking at the now-mangled waffle on his plate.

Cas sits next to him, and Dean struggles not to visibly lean away. He’s still fucking pissed.

Sam looks between them, chewing his lip. They’re sitting there, Dean still fucking with his breakfast, Cas with his jaw set as he determinedly stares at anything other than Dean.

Sam sighs loudly, and Dean resists the temptation to roll his eyes.

“You want anything to eat, Cas?” Sam asks.

He shakes his head. “Not hungry.”

Sam shrugs. “Okay, well, we’re thinking of getting on the road pretty soon.”

Cas nods once to show him he’s heard, then goes back to staring at his coffee, hands tightly clamped around the mug. Dean’s knife has started making those awful screeching noises as he scrapes his plate over and over. He’s not even eating, just cutting the poor waffle into microscopic pieces.

Sam stands up and yanks the plate away from him. “Be ready in ten minutes,” he snaps at them, and stalks off to the kitchen.

Dean fumes at the loss of his plate and throws the knife down on the table, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He doesn’t look at Cas. Castiel doesn’t look at him. But neither of them move.

They sit in silence. They hear Sam bustling in the kitchen, then his soft footsteps as he makes the way down the hall to his room, the soft click of his door as it closes behind him.

Castiel’s almost finished with his coffee when Dean pushes back from the table, the chair scraping as he stands up.

“You better wash that blanket.” Dean throws over his shoulder as he walks off to his room to get his pack.

Castiel stares after him for a minute, processing. Even though he was severely hungover, angry, irritable and craving a drink, he feels a small burst of warmth in his chest. He scowls at the empty table. How irritating.

No matter what armor he put up, Dean Winchester would always find a way to get underneath it.

Castiel says the only thing that comes to mind.

“Fuck.”

***

Cas stayed true to his promise, mostly. He was a fucking grouchy asshole for the first couple of weeks, especially during the day. His fingers kept tapping impatiently on every surface he laid his hands on, and his constant twitching drove Dean insane.

“Jesus Christ, Cas, relax!” He snapped at him once, and Cas turned an unimpressed eye on him.

“Let’s see you go through withdrawal, and then we’ll talk,” he had shot back, and Dean just slammed the door to the Impala and stalked away.

Nights were hard too. Sometimes, Dean would wake up and hear the muted sound of the TV going through the motel wall, and he knew Cas couldn’t sleep again. The crazy thought of going over to his room and knocking on the door crossed his mind a couple of times, but he never could bring himself to do it. Dean couldn’t do anything for Cas. He had to do this himself.

But he was sober on their cases now. He really was.

He was quieter, sure. He wasn’t as open as he had been—he mostly reverted back into old awkward Cas. Still had that mouth though. He was a sarcastic little shit, and it broke through Dean’s shell sometimes. He would find himself laughing at Cas’s jokes, smiling when he and Sam bickered like an old married couple. Then he would snap out of it, mentally kicking himself. They were supposed to be in a fight, remember?

But Dean found himself forgetting that, sliding back into the old pattern of Dean and Cas, Cas and Sam, Sam and Dean. Team Free Will.

But then Cas would say something offhand, Dean would make a snide comment, and they would be back at each other’s throats, lapsing into mutual angry silences that would last for days, until Sam yelled at them to get over it.

Dean didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand how he could be so goddamn infuriating and endearing at the same time. How he wanted to love him—love him like a brother, right, how he wanted to trust him, and how Cas didn’t seem to care. Half of the time, Dean didn’t know if he wanted to strangle him or wrap him in his arms and never let go.

Because he was still his best friend. Even if sometimes Cas sought him out in the middle of the night, reeling and drunk, spewing out hate and nonsense until he sagged in Dean’s arms, and Dean would half carry, half drag him back to his room, tucking him into bed as Castiel moaned and cried, nightmares finally dragging him down into sleep.

Those were the bad nights.

But there were good ones too. Nights when they would celebrate after a successful hunt, where they could relax, make a decent home cooked meal for once, catch a movie on the TV Dean had insisted on getting for the bunker. That was when Dean allowed himself to relax. To believe that their lives could actually slip into some semblance of normalcy.

At least Cas was actually staying put. He had disappeared a couple of times, before Dean had confronted him—back when he was at his worst. Sometimes they couldn’t find him for days. 

And every time Dean had gone after him.

But it had always been terrifying, every time he slid into the Impala, gearing up for another sleepless night. Because he always thought that this would be it, this would be the final time, the time that he wouldn’t find him. Wouldn’t find him slumped over on a stool at a bar, or meditating deep in the forest. That Cas wouldn’t call from a gas station in the middle of Kentucky with a hazy memory and empty pockets. Worried he wouldn’t find him just sitting in a park at midnight, with only a bottle to keep him company.

Dean never found out the reason behind those nights, why he felt the need to disappear like that, but frankly, he didn’t want to know. Dean didn’t need to interrogate him, he didn’t need to hear an explanation.

Just as long as he came back.

Dean wonders sometimes why Cas even sticks around. He couldn’t be _happy._ Fuck, Dean wasn’t happy. He was sure as shit Sam wasn’t happy. But it was they had always done and would always do.

But Cas had a choice. He could leave if he wanted.

Dean’s secretly glad that he hasn’t, though.

Now, Dean thinks that he’s getting over it. Slowly adjusting, learning what his body can take, what was normal. The drunken nights of terror have stopped. Cas hasn’t stopped drinking—hell, far from it—but he’s calmer, tamer. The levels of whiskey stay (mostly) level in their bottles. He only takes a beer with dinner if Sam offers, and he spends more time outside, walking in the forest beside the bunker. He sometimes leaves the scruff on his cheeks untouched, and he’s taken to wandering around barefoot. Dean snidely asked him if he was planning on moving to San Francisco and hooking up with Timothy Leary. Cas had only fixed him with one of those piercing gazes and wandered away. Dean tried to shrug it off. Cas was just getting weirder every day.

***

It’s been a quiet week, and they returned to the bunker for some down time. Dean walks around one night, and can’t find Cas.

He’s worried he might have gotten back into the bottle, wandered into some back room in a drunken fog and passed out. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

And he had been doing so well.

His room is empty, he’s not in the kitchen or library. Dean tears through the various rooms of the bunker, but he can’t find him. He whirls into Sam’s room, and Sam looks up quizzically from his book, taking in Dean’s frantic expression.

“What’s up?”

Dean tries to breathe. “Where’s Cas?”

Sam closes his book. “I don’t know. He’s not in his room?”

Dean fidgets. “No, I checked his room, I don’t know where he went—“

Sam looks like he’s about to get up. “Do you want me to help—“

Dean just waves a hand and stalks out the door. He decides to maybe check Cas’s room again, just in case he’s slipped back since Dean last looked. But he’s not there. Dean feels the panic threatening to come up, overwhelm him, but he shoves it back down. He had no reason to freak out yet.

Dean walks down the labyrinth-like hallways, briefly ducking into every room he passes, but it seems like the rooms are endless. Shit. He’s not sure he’s ever going to discover all the secrets of this place. He realizes he hasn’t looked outside and almost runs, bursting out of the door, expecting to see Cas slumped against the stairs again, wrapped in a dizzy haze, trying to count all the stars.

He walks up the steps and sees nothing but the quiet woods around him, the Impala parked a little ways off, and he chokes on his breath, trying to calm down.

“Dammit, Cas.” He shouts into the dark night. “Where are you?”

He feels something hit the back of his head and he freezes. He looks around, sees a small ball of wadded up paper on the ground. He looks up.

Castiel is sitting on the roof, the fucking _roof,_ smiling like he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Looking for me?” He smirks.

Dean stares up at him.

“How the fuck did you get up on the roof?”

Castiel smiles that strange smile.

“There was a ladder.”

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to resist the urge to punch something. Cas is framed against the moon, a halo of light around his head as he perches at the edge of the roof, watching him. Dean stomps inside, zeroing in on Sam’s room. He throws open the door.

“Do we have blueprints to this place?”

After several minutes of bickering with Sam, fiddling with floor plans and searching the bunker, Dean finally finds it. He climbs quickly, spilling out into the darkness with less grace than he had anticipated, but Cas doesn’t even turn around. He’s sitting at the edge, feet in the gutter, a cigarette in hand, watching the smoke curl up and disappear into the night air.

Dean approaches cautiously, wondering when Cas started smoking cigarettes. But as he gets closer, the smell hits him and he realizes exactly what Cas is holding in his calloused fingers. It snaps him back to his teenage years, when he was still trying to be a high school student, and his temporary friends got him stoned in the parking lot before third period. He crouches next to Cas.

“Where did you get that?”

Castiel doesn’t look at him, but takes another drag from the joint, the tip flaring red as he inhales.

“From a sketchy guy in an alley, what do you think?”

Dean lets out a short laugh at that, but he quickly sobers.

“Shit, Cas…” He shakes his head, not really sure what’s he’s trying to say. “I’m all for you giving up drinking, but—you know—this isn’t exactly the best substitute.”

Cas looks at him idly before looking back up at the sky. “Humans have been cultivating cannabis since at least the fourth millennium, BC.” He takes another languorous pull, blowing out the smoke from his lips. Dean finds catches himself staring and he drags his eyes away.

“I simply wished to experience what you’ve been using for over 6000 years.” Cas laughs. “No one’s died yet.”

He scratches his cheek thoughtfully. “I have to say, the experience is far better than I had ever imagined.” Cas spreads himself out on the roof, leaning back, his hips twisting on the cold tile. Dean swallows. His throat has suddenly become dry.

Castiel looks up at the sky, quiet for a moment, thinking. 

“Do you believe in other worlds, Dean?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Cas barges through the silence and continues.

“I mean, do you think there are others that are watching us right now, deciding whether or not to make contact?”

Dean looks at him sideways.

Shit, he was really gone.  
He finds it hard to keep the skeptical tone out his voice.

“You mean aliens?”

Castiel sighs.

“I suppose that’s your word for it. But my father is not only master of Earth—there are so many other places, galaxies, stars, beautiful worlds of splendor and pleasure…”  
He trails off as he arches his back, eyes closed. Dean swallows. He didn’t understand why this—no. He didn’t understand anything. Cas was high as fuck, babbling about aliens and practically writhing around on the roof—  
And for some reason, Dean was finding it hard to breathe.

“Our father only created angels for this world.” Cas continues, opening his eyes and reaching a hand up to the stars. “I always wanted to know the other planets, the other civilizations, ask them my questions…” Cas’s hand falls back and he presses a thumb to his lips, smiling. He stays like that for a minute, his eyes unfocused. Dean doesn’t dare speak. There’s a weird energy in the air, taut and still, but buzzing with heat. He thinks if he spoke, it would break the spell. So he holds his breath, and waits.

Cas seems to remember his joint and brings it up to his lips, taking another deep pull, sighing as he breathes out silver smoke, sprawling his body out, as if he could melt into the surface beneath him.

“But we were assigned to protect Earth, humanity, your lives.” He props his head up on his arm. “Not that you need protecting. Most of you don’t even believe we exist.” His face falls. “That we used to exist,” he whispers.

Dean doesn’t move. He hated when Cas got like this, achingly honest, when he let the raw pain beneath show. Dean never knew what to say.

Cas sits up, sucks down the last of it and flicks the roach over the edge of the roof. For some reason, he finds that funny, and starts laughing.

Castiel giggles as he rocks back and forth, feeling the night air caress his skin, and he closes his eyes.

Like that, with his eyes shut, he loses himself. His whole body lets go, and he feels himself reel, feels his essence heave and vomit, like he’ll keel over and die. But the rush of sensation brings Castiel back into himself, and when he opens his eyes, the stars seems brighter, the dazzling green of Dean’s intense gaze seems more beautiful, more whole, more pure.

Castiel is suddenly aware of his legs, how cramped and stiff they feel, and he stands clumsily.

Dean watches him as he walks closer and closer to the edge. He’s wary, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice. Cas hasn’t been exactly…shit, Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Cas is thinking. Cas had been slowly losing his faith, but Dean doesn’t think he’d—well, he wouldn’t do anything drastic. But he feels a sweat break out all over him as he sees Cas look over the lip of the gutter.

Dean tries to reassure himself. Cas isn’t like that. He wouldn’t try anything like that. He wouldn’t dare.

But Castiel is silent as he stares over the edge of the roof.

He glances down. The ground was so far, but so close. He wonders what it would feel like, to jump off this cliff, to feel his body smash against the pavement, to hear his bones break as he slipped into unconsciousness, then death. The thought makes him smile.

All Castiel could think of was the sweet oblivion that lay at the end of that fall.

Dean is still watching Cas. He’s inching towards the edge of the roof. Dean feels his pulse quicken, but he tries to calm himself. Cas wasn’t fucking suicidal. He might have his issues, but he wouldn’t do _that_.

 

Would he?

 

Cas’s chest hitches, and he leans forward, his eyes closed, his face at peace.

Before he even knows what’s happening, Dean is bolting forward—he shouts his name and seizes Cas’s hands as his whole body leans forward, almost falling over the edge of the roof. But Dean’s got him in his grip, and he pulls him back from the brink.

The sudden force drags them back, and they tumble, Castiel falling with him.

They hit the roof, hard, and Dean’s back slams into the tile. He shakes off the dizziness of the impact, and opens his eyes, and he realizes Cas—

Cas is on top of him. Dean’s mind blanks.

He can’t think. He can only see Cas’s eyes boring into his, can feel every inch of his body, lying hot on his. He’s got one hand pressed into the small of Cas’s back, the other clutching tight to his wrist.

And Dean doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline, or the fear, or maybe even the marijuana smoke making him lightheaded, but he feels himself arch his back, pressing up into him. He hears Cas’s sharp intake of breath, and he swears he hears a soft moan. Fuck—he doesn’t know what he’s doing, his reason is gone, and he can feel Cas through his jeans, already hard. Dean rolls his hips, pushing up into him, feeling Cas’s smoke-laced breath come faster, and Dean stiffens at the touch. Their breath is hot and tight in between them. Their faces are so close.

Then Dean snaps out of it and roughly pushes Cas off him.

He scrambles away from him, standing and trying to catch his breath. Cas doesn’t move from where Dean’s shoved him, he just looks up at Dean with lidded eyes, panting.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Dean yells, but Cas doesn’t respond. He stares at him for a second before he starts giggling, bending over to catch his breath in between laughs.

Dean flares with anger. This wasn’t fucking funny. And even though his brain is screaming at him to get away, he finds himself in Cas’s space again, right in his face.

“Don’t you ever pull shit like that again,” he seethes. Cas stops laughing, but the blissed out expression on his face makes Dean’s stomach twist.

Cas is so close, he could lean forward an inch and be kissing him.

Dean hisses into his face. “You don’t ever give up like that.”

Cas doesn’t respond, but his pupils flare with something Dean can’t describe. Fear, anger, maybe even—

Dean can’t fucking think. The only thing he can do is snarl out threats.

“If you ever try anything like that— _ever_ again, so help me—“

Dean catches sight of those blue eyes and the words die in his throat.

They’re close, they’re so fucking close. Dean can feel his breath. There’s a stray eyelash on his cheek. 

Cas bends up into him, his face is centimeters from his. They’re sharing the same air, and Dean can only see Cas’s lips, flushed and slightly damp. He closes his eyes, leaning his head back—

Dean tears himself away and finds the hatch in the roof. He climbs down the ladder so fast he thinks he might break something. He hits the ground and stumbles off to his room. He shuts the door behind him, panting. His cock is straining against his clothes, shit, he feels like he’s gonna die. He locks the door and strips off his jeans, falling onto the bed and strokes himself desperately, faster and faster until he shudders all over, whispering Cas’s name into his pillow as he comes.

He lies there, covered in sweat, and he hears the soft passage of footsteps, Cas retreating to his room. Dean struggles to catch his breath.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You put up your defenses when you leave  
> You leave because you’re certain of who you want to be  
> You’re putting up your armor when you leave  
> And you leave because you’re certain of who you want to be, oh  
> 

Dean twitches on his twin bed. He’s been watching the infomercial channel on mute for the past hour, ever since he told Sam to stop bugging him and go to sleep. Sam had given him that look, but finally relented. So Dean had been looking over every couple of minutes to check to see if he was keeping his promise. 

Eventually he got bored and flipped on the TV, just to have something to look at. He would have tried to read, but the only thing available was Gideon’s Bible, shuttered up in the drawer of the desk beside him. Great selection. He didn’t need any reminding of all the angel dicks he had met in the past couple of years. He snorts. What a bunch of crap.

But Sam fell asleep, eventually, somewhere in between the section about ordering now and the promise of a special deal.

He turns off the TV and sits up, testing the waters. Sam doesn’t move. Dean stands up and flicks on the light in the bathroom. No response.

He sighs. Sam was really asleep then. Good.

Dean rubs his face and leans against the wall. He felt like shit.

He remembers what he violently spewed out at him, and he winces. He had been stupid— he had let his words get away from him—

_“Why are you even here? Can you really do anything for us anymore?”_

Cas didn’t deserve that shit.

Dean had said the worst possible things he could, digging into his weak spot, his biggest fear. He had hated himself as he said it, but he was so hurt, so angry—

_“Barely more than a fucking junkie now, how long before you get us killed—“_

He fucking hates the way this has become, his feelings for Cas, all the crap that’s been dumped on them, and he couldn’t help but lash out. He needed to hurt him, hurt him the way Dean had been hurting the past few weeks.

They hadn’t really talked, not really, not since the incident on the roof. They seemed to have established this unspoken agreement—of not talking, of never being alone in a room together, only interacting if a case required it. And that’s what left Dean feeling fucking confused. Because after…what had happened, Cas acted like it was nothing. He didn’t even mention it. He ignored Dean, he paraded around with his joints and drunken nights out at the bars and even told them all about his newfound sexual exploits, and Dean had burned. He fucking hated him. Hated him.

But earlier that day, they found themselves at a diner. Alone.

Shit. They were always in some diner, weren’t they? 

Sam had mumbled some excuse about going to the library, even though they were done with the case now. Dean had almost protested, but Sam had given him that look, the one that said—

 _I know something’s up. Figure it out._  

It was the first time they had really been alone—since that night—and it was horrible. Dean doesn’t even remember how it started, what set it off, but it was something ridiculously small, some stupid comment, and suddenly Cas was storming out of the restaurant, slamming the door to the Impala, sulking in the car like a fucking teenager.

The ride was mostly silent, but then Cas threw a snide remark his way, and Dean couldn’t help but bite back. That was how they ended up screaming at each other in the parking lot.

_“And it’s all your fault isn’t it? This fine fucking mess you’ve landed us in—“_

He wanted him, fuck, he wanted Cas so bad, but Cas didn’t even look at him like he was a person anymore, he just turned a blank eye on him nowadays, going out and fucking every warm body he could find—

_“You think we need you? Seems the only thing you’re good for is screwing us over.”_

Cas had wordlessly turned away from him, retreating to his room and slamming the door behind him. Dean had been left out on the wet pavement, breathing heavily.

He cringes, remembering. Cas didn’t deserve that. Not after everything they’d been through. Even if they were in this—this weird limbo where they had no idea how they were supposed to act around each other…shit. He shouldn’t have fucking said those things to him.

When Sam had come back, he had ignored his questions, told him to stop being such a pain in the ass, and just go to sleep.

But now he was, and Dean doesn’t have an excuse anymore.

So he finds himself sneaking next door, hesitating as he stands in front of Cas’s room.

Dean takes a deep breath and knocks. He waits, but of course he doesn’t answer.

“CAS.” He says, pounding on the tough wood. He wonders briefly if Sam’ll wake up, but then he shakes it off.

“Cas, open up.” Silence.

Dean sighs and leans his forehead against the wood. “C’mon, Cas. I’m—“ _Fuck._

“I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said…what I said, and I just—can we talk? Please?”

No answer.

Dean feels the anger flare up again, but he pushes it down. No, stay calm. Calm.

So he _calmly_ whips out his lock pick, and the door lies open in front of him in seconds.

But he isn’t there.

Dean swallows. Where the fuck could he be? 

He tears through the tiny motel room, checking the bathroom, under the bunched up covers…he even drops down and looks under the bed, just in case. Cas had done weirder things before.

But he’s not there.

His pack is lying on the table, along with a couple of shirts and a lone sock abandoned on the ground. Dean briefly rifles through it. His wallet’s gone.

Where the hell was he?

He nips back into his room to grab the keys to the Impala. He briefly considers waking Sammy, to tell him to stay up just in case Cas comes back, but he thinks better of it. He didn’t need to get Sam involved in this, and Cas couldn’t have gotten far. Could he?

He gears up the Impala and speeds through the dark streets. It’s not the biggest town, but there are the couple tortured souls wandering, making the most of the night. But none of them are Cas. He does a circuit of the town, just to be sure.

He sweats as the minutes tick by. Shit, shit, shit. What if Cas had left?

But then he thinks back to the motel room, remembers Cas’s unpacked clothes. He wouldn’t have left without them, he reassures himself. Maybe he was just…out. Right. Maybe he just needed some space, some place to think.

He sees a rundown bar and decides to pull over. He stares at the neon signs in the window, debating. Cas might have gone here. He might have retreated from the confrontation with Dean, angry, confused, looking for a brief escape. It wouldn’t hurt to check. Shit. He could probably use a drink himself.

Dean gets out of the car, briefly glancing up and down the street as he heads toward the doorway to the bar. There’s a couple tipsy girls standing outside in tiny dresses, smoking cigarettes. One heckles him as he passes, asking him to bring his pretty face back. He ignores them, and they collapse into a fit of snide laughter as he walks into the bar, stopping just inside the doorway.

It’s dark, and he has to struggle to make out the faces that pass by. He scans the bar, but he doesn’t see him. He starts to panic, but then he spies that head of dark hair, tousled and sticking up every which way, and the knot in Dean’s stomach loosens. He was there. He was okay. He hadn’t left.

He’s talking to some skank with a short skirt and too much makeup. Something in Dean stirs, but he beats it back down. Cas could do whatever he wanted. He could fuck whoever he wanted. It didn’t matter.

Dean teeters on the doorway for a second. He could leave now. He knew where Cas was, and he wasn’t in trouble. He was perfectly at liberty to stay here and get wasted. Dean could leave now, get into the Impala, crawl back into his shitty motel bed, and patch things up in the morning. He would never even know that Dean had been there.

But for some reason he still hasn’t moved.

They’re just talking. And if Cas’s arm is around her waist, so what? If she reaches up to mess with his hair, trying to calm the wild strands, it was fine. It didn’t mean anything.

Dean’s starting to get odd looks, probably because he hasn’t moved from his spot since he came in, or maybe because he’s staring at Cas with a terrifying intensity. He hears the door bang open behind him, and it startles him into turning. The girls from outside come back in, the flirtatious one winking at Dean as she passes.

Dean looks back up just in time to see Cas sticking his tongue down the girl’s throat.

He’s across the bar and yanking him off her before he even realizes it—he doesn’t remember ever moving so fast in his life. The girl breaks from him with a sputtered gasp of confusion.

“Hey!”

Her shrill voice pierces his ears. Cas spins with a bewildered look.

“What the—“ He sees that the hand holding onto his collar is attached to Dean, and the confusion in his face quickly twists into fury.

“ _Dean?_ ” He spits, but Dean doesn’t have time to respond, because the girl is reaching out, shouting something, Dean doesn’t know, he can’t hear her, he just smacks her hand away and drags Cas towards the door. Cas throws his hand off and shouts at him. “What the _fuck_ , Dean!”

Conversations are stopping, people are staring. Cas is standing opposite him, face flushed, panting as he stares at Dean with murderous eyes. The bitch behind him is staring too, but Dean doesn’t give a shit about her. He needs to get Cas out of here. “Come on—“

Cas shakes his head, his fists clenched. “No! I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”

Dean feels the heat boil inside him again, and he doesn’t remember choosing to seize Castiel by the arm and roughly drag him towards the exit, but Cas isn’t having any of it. He shoves him off and Dean reels, hitting a table, knocking over several glasses. People are shouting, there are hands roughly grabbing him and throwing him out the door, but all he can see is Cas’s ice blue eyes, staring at him with hatred.

Dean is thrown out and he falls to the street, his hands stinging in pain as gravel digs into his palms. He hears hard footsteps behind him, and all of the sudden Cas is in his face.

“What the fuck is your _problem_?”

Cas hauls him to his feet and shoves him, Dean falls backward, his back hitting the cold brick of the alleyway. He feels water seep into his shoes as he stumbles through a puddle, and Cas pins him against the wall.

“Get— _off_ —“ Dean pushes him off and they stand opposite each other, breathing heavily.  Cas’s face is twisted with rage.

“Why are you here?“ he seethes, spitting out words like knives.

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t really have a good excuse for what he did, why he got them kicked out of the bar. He can’t admit that he drove here in a panic, thinking that he had left— because he was so fucking gone on him, and the thought of losing him now felt like someone wrenching his heart out of his chest.

“You can’t…you’re not—“ He swallows, hesitating.

“Drinking, Cas—” He stutters out, wincing as he says it. What a fucking weak answer. Cas is perfectly at liberty to do what he wants.

And he must know that too, because he turns away, bringing a hand to his mouth as he barks out a cruel laugh. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Cas paces back and forth, rubbing his knuckles. Shit. He looks like he’s going to hit him.

Dean pants. “Come on.” Cas is shaking his head. Dean steps toward him. “Let’s go.”

Cas sneers at him. “Since when do you get to tell me what to do?”

Dean’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t answer. He just reaches out and grabs his sleeve again. “Come on—”

Castiel twists out of his grip and punches him. He lands it well, and Dean staggers as he falls against the wall again, his eye stinging.

Cas hisses at Dean’s hunched form. “Don’t—fucking—touch me.”

Dean brings a hand up to his eye and winces. He struggles to stand, but he slips and bangs his elbow against the ground, gasping as pain shoots through his arm. He’s really regretting ever leaving his room.

 

What had happened to them? How did they come to this?

 

Cas is standing over him, hands balled up into fists, chest heaving.

“I don’t understand you, Dean. I will never understand you.”

Dean looks up at him from his crouched position against the wall, but he doesn’t say anything.

“You push me away, you tell me I don’t matter, and then you come chasing after me…I’ve tried, I’ve tried so hard—“  

Dean didn’t know if he was drunk, and this was truth spilling from his lips, or him just being a fucking dick and messing with Dean’s head. Shit, Dean felt drunk himself. This wasn’t real. This had to be some cartoon version of his life, some ridiculous caricature of reality.

“What is the matter with you, Dean?” Cas spits.

His eyes are so blue. Dean can’t speak. His tongue is gone, he’s only skin and muscle now, he's rubber, he’s jelly underneath Cas’s hypnotic gaze.

“Why do you do this to me?” Cas’s voice is still a rough growl, but he can hear the pain filtering through the anger. Dean struggles against that voice and stands. He can’t let this happen. Cas watches savagely as Dean jerks himself up. But he doesn’t try to explain. He just holds his injured arm and tries to get away from him, trying to think, trying to process, trying to deal. But Cas doesn’t let him. He pulls Dean back, whipping him around, forcing him to look into his eyes. He crowds right up into his face, dark and heated.

“You send me away, you tell me I don’t mean anything to you—then you seek me out, dragging me back, making sure I never step outside your bounds—” He grabs his wrists, shoving him back against the wall.

“I don’t understand it, Dean, I really don’t. You are—“ he sucks in a deep breath before continuing. “ _Infuriating_.” His voice is nothing more than a hiss. He must have been holding this back for months.

Dean whimpers as Cas tightens his grip.

 

“What do you want from me, Dean?” He’s so close, he’s unbelievably close.

“I’m a soldier, and I’ve done my job the best I can.” He thinks he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “What more do you want?”

Dean can’t tear his eyes away.  


_What do you want?_

 

It takes all his strength for Dean to shove him off. Cas stumbles back, surprised at Dean’s sudden force.

“If you’d stop fucking _hitting_ me—“ Dean shakes out his shoulders, bringing a hand up to his lip to check for blood. 

“Let’s just go back to the motel—" He manages to get out as he plunges his hand in his pocket, finding his car keys. "We can talk there. Okay?”

Cas turns his head to the side, letting out a derisive laugh. He turns back to him. “You think I’m going anywhere with you?”

Dean glares at him.

“I’m not getting in that fucking car.”

Dean tightens his grip on the keys. “Cas, just get in.”

“No.”

Dean grits his teeth. He wants to hit him.

“Get. In. The car.”

Cas starts walking away from him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m walking.”

“Cas—no—“

Cas whirls on him. “I fucking walked here, and I think I can fucking walk back.” He starts off down the sidewalk. “Don’t you dare try to follow me.”

Dean stares after him as he disappears into the night. Every fiber of his being screams at him to go after him, but he doesn’t. He gets back into the Impala, slamming the car door, and as he pulls out onto the road, he’s not really sure what he’s going to do.

He ends up on the highway, the miles flying behind him, his whole body boiling. He just needs to _drive._

He turns up the music until it drowns out his thoughts. He looks down at his arm. He experimentally flexes his fingers. It was sore, but he’d be fine. He chances a look at himself in the rearview mirror. He’d probably have a nice black eye by tomorrow.

He doesn’t want to think right now. He can’t. Just focus on the ebbing pain, and breathe. Breathe.

When he finally calms down, he looks at the clock on the dash. It’s almost four a.m. Holy shit.

He turns the wheel with no amount of gentleness, and he hears the tires squeal as they respond to the touch. He gears himself for the return. He has no fucking idea what to do. Half of him wants to choke Cas with his bare hands until he begged for mercy. The other half of him—

No. Dean wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

It’s almost four thirty when he pulls the Impala back into the parking lot. He gets out and slams the door, pulling the key to his room out of his pocket. He walks up and slots the key in the door, but he pauses. 

He’s there, key in lock, but he can’t bring himself to go inside. Every part of him is straining towards the silent room next door. Dean takes a deep breath. Fuck.

He walks two feet to his right and hammers on the door. He doesn’t care if he wakes him up. He waits impatiently, and he hears soft footsteps approaching the door. He hears the chain slide in its lock, and the door creaks open.

Cas is standing there, hair sticking up, eyes already full of anger. He’s only wearing a thin t-shirt and his boxers, and fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing Dean’s ever seen in his life.

Cas crosses his arms.

“What do you want?”

Dean places a hand against the door and thrusts it open, pushing past Cas, trying not to focus on the heat of Cas’s body in that brief moment before he shoves past him, into his room.

Dean stalks inside, not looking at him. He clenches his fists, not really sure what to say. He sees the open bottle on the table and knows Cas is probably in no condition to discuss anything right now. But he can’t hold it back any longer. He wheels around, fixing him with a menacing glare.

“You want to know what I want?”

Dean strides up to him, and Cas backs away. But Dean doesn’t relent, and he presses him up against the wall, hands planting on either side of his head. Cas can only stare.

Dean doesn’t even recognize his own voice as it slides out of his mouth, betraying him.

 

“I want you, Cas.”

 

Castiel swallows, but he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want you just to fight for us—I don’t want your powers, shit—I want _you_.” He tries to stop himself, but he can’t. The truth is finally out and he just fucking spills.

“I want you with me, always and forever, I just want to fucking feel your hands on me, Cas, because—“

He finds those blue eyes.

He takes a deep breath.

  
“I love you, okay?”

 

Cas doesn’t say anything, but he just stops.

He’s looking at Dean, trapped in his arms, silent, his gaze piercing into Dean’s soul.

The seconds stretch by, and Dean starts to sweat.

“Fucking say something, Cas.” He stutters out, and Cas seems to snap out of his haze.

He doesn’t. He just grabs Dean and drags him down.

 

And when Cas kisses him, Dean’s knees buckle. It’s hot—shit—it’s so fucking hot. Castiel wraps his arms around him and shoves his tongue down his throat, and Dean responds, pressing him harder into the wall, trying to touch him everywhere. Dean groans as Cas licks his way into his mouth, biting and hissing, dragging in ragged breaths as they roll against each other.

Cas pushes him back, and Dean snarls, but he reaches up and rips his shirt off, before grabbing Dean’s hands and pulling him back in. Dean crushes him against the wall, desperate to feel the slide of sweaty skin against his.

“Jesus, Cas—“

Fuck—all these years, all these nights of longing, of a desire to reach out and touch, and they’re finally coming to this realization in a dirty hotel room, curling around each other like it’s the last night on earth. Cas bends into him, clutching at his shirt, sliding his tongue over his throat, groaning as Dean reaches a hand down and brushes up against his cock. Dean hears the cotton of his shirt tear as Cas rips into him, and he presses burning lips against his chest.

Dean sucks in his breath. _Fuck._

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this in his life—his dick is straining against his jeans, he’s grinding up into him, and Cas’s hips are finding his own and matching every movement—the dirty sounds that escape his mouth betraying him, as he thrusts against Dean with a cold fury, dragging fingers against his skin and moaning as Dean’s hand snakes through his hair.

Dean reaches a hand down and grips the back of Cas’s thighs—he hikes his legs up, and Cas wraps around him, he’s fucking _straddling_ him as Dean presses against him harder, pinning him to the wall.

Just seconds before Dean had wanted to hit him, to curse him—to throttle him until he couldn’t breathe—but now Castiel was robbing Dean of his breath just by touching him, running his fingers through the hair on his head, sucking at his tongue, nipping at his neck, the soft skin of his arms. He wanted to feel his bruising hands all over his body, _fuck_ , he wanted every part of him.

Cas’s legs are wrapped around him, he’s whispering hate and vengeance in his ear, only the thin cotton of his boxers separating them, and Dean slips a hand down into him.

He feels up, brushing over strong muscle, his fingers finding that tight spot of heat and he slips in, Cas bucking up as his fingers breach him, throwing his head back against the wall. Dean presses another kiss into his neck. He smells sweat and whiskey and, shit, _shit_ , his cock is rock hard against Dean’s stomach as he thrusts forward, gasping hard. He whines as Dean forces hot kisses down his neck, sucking at the skin over his pulse. Cas shudders out a rough moan.

“You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch,” Cas hisses, and kisses him again. Dean snarls and digs in deeper, making Cas gasp into his mouth. He presses one hand up against the wall, bracing himself as Dean hikes him up higher onto his hips, finding a better angle and hitting him particularly deep. Cas groans and scrapes his nails against the back of his neck, clenching around him.

Dean bites every part of him, wanting to feel him jump and tense in pain and pleasure, and Cas doesn’t disappoint. His body is a live wire as Dean slicks up his hand and slips in a third finger, and Cas groans, his eyes rolling back into his head.

Dean retreats, fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. Cas is still pressed up against the wall, he brings both hands to the back of Dean’s neck as he watches him with wild eyes.

“I hate you so much, you don’t have the stomach for it, Winchester, you don’t have the fucking guts—“ he hisses in his ear as Dean frees his cock from his jeans, but despite all his hateful words, he leans in impatiently, clutching him tighter. Dean rips Cas’s boxers down, unwillingly untangling Cas’s legs from around him, pushing him against the wall as he yanks them down to his ankles and kicks the fabric away. Dean jerks him back up around him, naked, and he presses Cas back up against the wall.

Castiel feels himself trapped, Dean is pinning him down, only his strong hips and hands keeping him from sliding to the floor. He feels the sweat on his back and knows it covers the wall behind him, knows it makes him slick as Dean teases him, gently pushing into him.

Castiel grips his hair tight and throws his head back.

“Come on, you bastard,“ he sneers before pressing a biting kiss to his throat.

Dean’s eyes flare, and he pushes in, hard and fast, splitting him apart with a hot burn, and Castiel spasms with the force of it, and he bites down on Dean’s shoulder, hearing his sharp intake of breath as a reward. Dean fucks him into the wall, it’s so hard, so good, and Castiel digs in deeper, feeling Dean tighten and tense against him, and he wonders if he could make Dean bleed.

He can’t think anymore, he just feels. Feels the pounding in his head, the electric thrill of alcohol in his veins, the hot slide of Dean inside him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Shit, it felt so good.

Castiel clenches, feeling his muscles tense around Dean inside, and the electricity surges again. He sees stars as he runs his hands up Dean’s sides, digging fingernails into his skin. Dean gasps against his neck, and he relishes in that small sound, how he can make Dean lunge and tense in pleasure, how he can control him even as he’s pinned against the wall.

Castiel wants to close his eyes, to just lose himself in it, but something stops him, because Dean is looking at him with fiery eyes, he’s watching him with a hot intensity that almost scared him. Castiel meets his gaze, and even as he does, he wants to pull back, to blink, to drag himself away. But he doesn’t. God, his eyes. Why was he doing this, why was he looking at him that way, he didn’t deserve it, he didn’t fucking deserve it—

Dean dips in closer and kisses him again, and Castiel wants to believe that he knows. Believe that Dean was measuring his moans and gasps, adjusting to Castiel’s every whimper, making sure that he felt everything, making sure that he was getting every single second. Because even if he hated him right now, even if he was just fucking him just to get off, he was giving him everything, hitting him just where he wanted, that one spot that made Castiel coil and writhe. Dean grips the back of his head and presses their foreheads together, meeting his eyes again.

Castiel wanted to melt into him, he wanted to shove him off and run as far as he possibly could, he wanted to hold him tight and never let go. This was too much. He didn’t understand.

He could understand Dean wanting him, he could understand Dean fucking him. But he couldn’t understand why Dean was holding him with a tender strength, caressing him with his hands, watching and studying as Castiel gasped, adapting to every movement, silently learning him as he kissed his neck, as he stroked his back, urged him towards his breaking point.

Why? Why?

_I love you, okay?_

The brief echo of Dean’s voice drifts through his mind, but then Dean’s fingers wrap around his cock and he stops thinking. He didn’t believe him. He couldn’t.

He arches his back and feels Dean struggle against his skin, turning his slack jaw against his cheek, leaving a slick trail where his tongue and lips caress him, quivering as he draws in ragged breaths, feeling Dean’s hand reach out and clasp his own.

“Dean, fuck—Dean—”

He’s thrusting harder now, faster, as his whole body shivers around him, and Dean feels like he’s going to break. Cas’s legs are wrapped tight around him, sliding against the slick skin of his back and pressing against the rough denim of his jeans that he couldn’t be bothered to remove, and he fucks him harder.

 _Cas,_ he whispers, his voice hate and ice and fire. _I fucking hate you so much, I fucking hate you, I love—fuck, I love you, and don’t ever leave—because if you leave—I don’t think I’ll survive—oh—I really don’t._

Dean feels him throb beneath him, and he coaxes it out of him, works his orgasm up to full tilt, and Cas lets out a silent cry, his whole body shuddering and rolling as Dean thrusts into him one more time.

Cas’s arms are locked tight around him, and he can’t breathe. Dean slumps against the wall, almost there, but so fucking drained, so wrecked, and he doesn’t know if he can make it without hurting him.

But Cas is pressing his lips against his forehead, he’s whispering his name and running his hands down his back, reaching into him.

“Dean,” he whispers, and Dean feels the strength return to him, burning as he feels Cas around him. “Come on, Dean.” Cas’s voice is soft and hot against his neck.

And that’s all it takes, Dean spills, his legs giving out, and they collapse against the wall, Cas moaning as Dean empties into him, as they shudder against each other. Dean’s body stills, and Cas is kissing him everywhere. Dean is shaking. Fuck, what have they done?

They’re crouched against the wall, locked tight up in each other, messy and covered in sweat. Dean can’t look at him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 

Cas’s soft hands are running over his entire body, guiding him back to reality, back to life. One hand finds his chin and he tilts Dean’s head up, looking into those arctic eyes.

 _Blue,_ is all Dean can think. Simple words. He can’t dare think of anything else.

Cas pulls him in and kisses him again, his sweet breath filling Dean’s mouth as his tongue rolls over his lips, as he entices Dean to meet him, to roll up into his touch, and they slowly come down from their high, feeling the unhurried motion of mouths and heat, even as they feel strapped of strength.

 

He doesn’t know how long they lie there, collapsed against the wall, panting as the world starts moving again, as they pull back to reality. Dean wants to shrink away, draw himself back from Cas’s touch, because the shame and confusion and anger that fills his head doesn’t let him think of much else. But then he closes his eyes, feels Cas’s heat against his skin, feels the soft brush of his arm as it wraps around his waist, the crook of his knee clenching around his thigh, his soft breath sweet and tense against Dean’s cheek as he bites his ear, not hard, but simply because he needs to touch him, to feel his body strain and tense against his, even as they try to pull themselves back together against the dirty wall of this shitty motel.

It doesn’t even seem real, this can’t be his life, because the thing he’s been dreaming about for years has finally happened. Cas, pressed against him, only needing the sensation of Dean’s chest, rising and falling, his cheek nestled against his neck. Dean thinks he may die.

He’s never felt like this in his life. Because, fuck, Cas made him unbelievably happy. Happy and infuriated. And isn’t that love? But nothing good ever happens to Dean Winchester. So even as he relishes in Cas’s touch, he’s terrified. He wonders what new torture could possibly be in store for him.

He doesn’t have much time to think, because Cas is nosing at his neck, and Dean’s heart leaps at the touch. His head is a mess, he tries to sort out what he’s feeling.

“Cas—“ he chokes out, but Cas doesn’t let him finish. He smothers his voice with kisses, and Dean doesn’t try to resist. He didn’t exactly want to talk either.

“Don’t—just—“

Cas sounds so agonized that Dean wants to grab him, shake him until he tells him what’s wrong—

“We’ll figure it out, okay? Later…just—don’t—“

 _Don’t what?_ Dean wants to ask, but Cas wraps him in his arms and pulls him up, and they fall into the bed. There’s no question about it, they curl into each other, not speaking, just touching, smoothing palms over arms, backs, faces. Their fingers lace together, and Dean tries to look up at him, but Cas's eyes are shut tight as he tries to slow his breath.

So Dean pulls him into his arms, their bodies slotting perfectly together, and they lie there, just breathing. Dean’s whole body is jumping, shit, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, but he presses his cheek against the back of Cas’s neck and listens to the steady rhythm of him, and his heart slows. Not long after, he feels Cas’s breath even out, his body loosening in his arms, and Dean knows he’s asleep. He slips off not long after him, holding him tight.

Dean wakes with a start.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look who makes their own bed  
> Lies right down within it  
> And what will you have left?  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter will go up next week, I promise.  
> Thanks for sticking with me, y'all. I appreciate it.
> 
> In the words of our Lord:  
> "Writing is hard."

Dean wakes with a start.

He swallows hard as he catches his breath, trying to block out the vivid images in his brain.  
It had felt so real. He could still feel the indistinct traces of him on his skin, his scent, how his eyes looked that night.  
God—but it was so fucking painful. He didn’t understand why his brain did this to him, why it made him relive that desperate night over and over until he was nearly crying. He just wanted to forget, to move on, to focus on anything else.  
He sits up, feeling the warmth of the sheets fall away from his skin and the cool motel room air wash over him. He rubs his face. Shit. He needed a fucking cold shower.  
He refused to jerk off to him anymore. It was a stubborn thing, it was a childish, selfish thing, but for some reason, it made him feel like he was getting a little bit of revenge, even if the bastard had no fucking idea. And if he refused to think about him, maybe he would get over it. He could try to convince himself that his attraction to him was fleeting, that it was just something that they got caught up in, that it didn’t matter.  
Three years later, and he was still telling himself that.

As he stands there, water pounding down around his head, he closes his eyes and tries not to think about it. But he does. Of course he does.  
He thought about it nearly every fucking second—how he woke up that morning, happier than he had ever felt in a long time, hell, maybe even in his entire life, and had seen nothing but an empty bed. How he had rolled over sleepily, perhaps expecting to see him sitting at the table across the room, smiling at him in that shy, secretive way—or to hear the gentle pulse of the shower, the rush of a faucet.  
But there was nothing. No sound, no warmth. Just emptiness.  
Funny how the memory of that morning was blurry, when the night before was so clear. He remembered the main things, like clumsily falling out of bed, scouring the room for traces of him, finding his pack and clothes gone, seeing no hint of him except for the room key lying abandoned on the table.  
That key.  
Dean knew what it meant the minute he saw it, of course he knew, but he wanted to believe it wasn’t true. He had thrown on his clothes in a delirious haze, barging in next door, waking Sam and scaring him half to death, yelling, asking where he was.  
But Sam didn’t know. Nobody knew. He even asked the bored clerk behind the desk, who had popped her gum and said she had no idea. Dean had almost throttled her, but Sam pulled him away, just in time, before he managed to do anything stupid.  
And so they stayed. They stayed at that same crappy motel room for weeks—just staring, refusing to talk to each other as they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Sam had remained tight lipped about it, because he saw the way Dean twitched, the fury in his eyes any time he hinted at moving on, the pain that got worse and worse as the days dragged by. He pursed his lips and gave him that puppy dog look, wordlessly watching as Dean’s eye purpled and blackened—then faded, slowly returning to normal with the passing days.  


And he didn’t come back.  
Dean remembers the exact day—Tuesday, twenty-three days after he disappeared, and he had woken up with a vice around his heart. He had walked down to the office and checked out without a word, coming back into their room and telling Sam to pack up— without an explanation, without emotion. Sam had grudgingly agreed, and they went back to the bunker.  
Dean buried himself in cases. He had locked himself up, he wasn’t there anymore. Something within him had broken. Now he was just…there. Doing the job and protecting the world from all the evil sons of bitches that haunted the darkness. He didn’t need anything else, like emotions. Emotions just made him weak.  
Because it didn’t do well to think about it. Don’t think about him. Just think about the job. Think about his little brother. Think about protecting Sammy with everything he had, that was it. No attachments, nothing. Just the two of them against the world, and Dean’s own desperate mission to kill every evil thing on the face of the planet.

But even Sam got fed up with his shit. He remembers that final conversation, the one he knows was the deal breaker, the one that pushed him away for good.  
He had been throwing stuff in his pack, preparing to go on another hunt. That’s all they ever really did.  
Sam looked up at him from his own gun. He had hesitated, but finally something slid into place, like he couldn’t hold it back any longer.  
“Dude, what the hell happened between you and Cas?”  
Dean keeps loading his shotgun, not looking at him. It’s the first time either of them has said his name out loud in a while.  
“What are you talking about?”  
Sam had crossed his arms, staring at Dean. “You were fighting for weeks, you were barely talking to each other—and then he just vanishes?” Sam looks at him exasperatedly. “What the hell, man?” When Dean doesn’t answer, he blows out his breath in a rush.  
“You gotta tell me what’s going on.”  
Dean throws the loaded gun in the pack. “I don’t know.” He stands and starts shoving salt and holy water from their stores into the duffel.  
“Dean.”  
He doesn’t look at him. His brain is boiling.  
“Dean, so help me—“  
“What, Sam?” He whirls on him. “You gonna fix me and Cas? There’s nothing to fix.” He’s yelling now. “He’s gone, okay? He didn’t want to fucking be here, so he left. Plain and simple.”  
Sam’s staring at him, horrified. “How—how do you know that? Did he tell you—“  
“No.” Dean turns back to the pack, not even sure what he’s doing anymore. He’s kind of just rearranging shit now.  
“Then what?”  
Dean stops, stares up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath. “I told him to go,” he lies.  
A loud crash comes from behind him, and Dean whirls. Sam’s stood up so fast that he knocked over his chair, and his hands are curled into fists. “Don’t you do this, Dean.”  
Dean stares at him. “Do what?”  
Sam stares right back. “You know what.”  
Dean turns around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
Sam seizes his shoulder and spins him around. Dean grabs his arm and tries to shove him off, but Sam’s holding on tight, not letting go.  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
His voice is dangerous. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this. They’ve fought before, Christ, they’ve been fighting their whole lives, but this was different. Where was this coming from?  
“I’ve kept quiet, I’ve tried to give you space, but…” Sam looks like he might kill him. “Dean, you’ve never—“ He stops, tries for a softer tone. “I just…I know how hard it is.”  
Dean tries to shove his hand off, but Sam holds tight. “I know, man.”  
Dean wants to hit him. “Back off.”  
Sam’s eyes are pleading. “No! Dean, I’m your brother, you gotta talk to me—“  
Dean finally rips Sam’s hand off and stares at him, fuming.  
“You done?”  
Sam crumples. “Dean—“  
He didn’t let him finish. He stalked off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

And it had driven him away. It took a couple of months, but finally Sam had dropped it on him. That he was done. That he was out for good.  
Part of Dean didn’t believe him at first. How many times had he made that declaration, always ending with him crawling back? But when Sam hugged him, told him it was okay, that he would always be there for him, he knew this time was different.  
And he felt nothing when Sam packed his bags and left.  
It had to happen eventually, right? Everyone Dean loved left him.  
It was actually easier without him. He didn’t have to worry about him anymore, about him getting hurt. Now there was nothing to hold against him, no leverage. He became an efficient and ruthless hunter, crossing the country and doing more than he and Sam could ever accomplish together.  
He didn’t fuck with the big plans anymore. There was Crowley and fallen angels and all kinds of crap, but he didn’t give a shit. He dumped the King of Hell off on Garth and never spoke to him again. He didn’t need friends. He had never really had any, anyway.  
Now it was just him. Him and his baby, crossing the country and making people safe. Three years of sweat and blood and rock salt, and it was the only thing that kept him going anymore. To save people, to hunt things, to rid the world of evil if it was the last fucking thing he did. He didn’t need anyone. He was Dean Winchester. The man demons ran from. The man vampires didn’t dare to bite. The man ghouls and djinn and even the newly fallen angels avoided at all costs.  
Because he no longer had anything to lose. And someone with nothing to lose is a dangerous thing.

So how did this soldier, this merciless machine of efficiency and wrath, find himself crying in a grimy shower in a shitty motel off of Highway 41?  
All because of a piece of shit masquerading as a man, with deep blue eyes and the sun in his smile.

He steps out of the shower and rubs his face clean, then stares into the mirror, his hand on his jaw as he examines his face. He’d amassed a number of scars over the past couple of years, but he regarded them with a kind of pride. It showed mileage. It showed work done right. It showed survival.  
He looks at his left shoulder and swallows. No scar there. There hadn’t been for…  
No. Not important.  
He rubs the rough skin above his eye, the thin line he now bore proudly. It had been one of the pagan gods, the only thing that had really given him any real trouble recently. He smiles, picturing the fight. It had been a good one. He had thought for a moment he might even lose. But when he remembers that strange sense of peace that thought had given him, he shudders.  
Part of Dean, that small part that was so unbelievably warped and ruined beyond repair—that part wishes every hunt will be his last, that the monster he stalks in the dark will finally get the better of him. That he’ll die with his blood pouring out onto the pavement, and he won’t have to live in this fucking hellhole anymore.  
At least then the dreams would stop. Because—fuck, they were almost every night. Sometimes it would be a replay of that scene in the dirty motel room, sometimes a memory of all those years before, or sometimes just them sitting, wrapped up in each other, not speaking. It was torture. He could barely get through a day without thinking about him at least once, it didn’t help that he saw him every single night too.  
He shakes his head. Fuck—no. He may be empty, but he wasn’t suicidal. That was the coward’s way out.  
He wraps a towel around his waist and walks back over to the dingy bed, sitting as he rifles through his pack, pulling out clothes. He gets dressed slowly in the dark, reveling in the silence of the early morning. He had hoped to get a couple more hours of rest before hitting the road, but his stupid dreaming brain had had something to say about that.

There had been a bunch of demon activity somewhere near Kansas City, where he was now headed. Dean felt a little bit above taking out such low level targets, but hey, nothing else of interest had showed up on his radar. Might as well kill a few demonic sons-a-bitches while he was at it.  
The drive flies by quickly, the miles melting away as he slides in tape after tape, blowing through the greatest hits, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, Aerosmith. He didn’t know if he really enjoyed music anymore. It was just something to fill the silence. Even if they didn’t talk, Sam’s presence had meant at least some noise in the stillness. But an empty car with only quiet and Dean’s tortured mind…that was a recipe for running yourself off the road.

_In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be_

Dean turns up the volume, trying to block out the pounding in his head.

_Did you ever really need somebody, and really need ‘em bad_  
 _Did you ever really want somebody, the best love you ever had_

He pulls off the highway onto the exit, stoplights flashing before his eyes as he drives through the dark night.

_Do you ever remember me, baby, did it feel so good,_  
 _‘Cause it was just the first time, and you knew you would_

Some part of the lyrics filters into his brain and he shuts it off.

Fuck that. Even Jimmy Page was messing with him now.

He pulls into another crap-ass motel just after one in the morning. As he opens the door to his tiny room, he mentally plans out tomorrow, what weapons to bring, what questions to ask. He sits down on the bed, but he isn’t tired. For some reason, he idea of sleep just won’t come to him. He just sees blue. Blue in his mind. He presses hands to his eyes, trying to shut it out.  
He flips on the TV and mindlessly stares for the next couple of hours, learning more than he ever wanted to know about potato peelers and just how much you can get for $19.99 in 21st century America. He knows he should get some rest, knows that he won’t be at full capacity to hunt if he doesn’t sleep, but he can’t bring himself to close his eyes. So he stays up and watches until he feels his eyes droop, the remote slipping from his hand.

He hears the plastic clatter against the floor and he jerks with a start, snapping back to reality. He can’t even tell what’s on the TV anymore, it’s just a blur of color, and Dean frowns. He opens his mouth to question it, but realizes there’s no one in the room with him. He has no one to ask anything anymore.  
He lies back, staring at the swirling colors in front of him when hears a soft knock on the door.  
“Come in,” he says, without even thinking twice. The door creaks open, and he walks in.  
Dean lolls his head from his tired position on the bed and smiles.  
“Hey,” he whispers.  
 _Hey_ , Cas says back. He walks over to the bed, stripping off his shirt as he does so, crawling up on the bed in just his jeans, dipping down to meet Dean’s willing mouth.  
Cas’s tongue swirls around him and he grips his shoulders, dragging him down to the bed, clutching him as tight as he can, and Cas is thrusting against him, moaning as he finds Dean’s hand, his lips on his cheek, his jaw, his throat.  
He feels Cas whisper his name against his neck, and the buzz from his lips makes him seize with anticipation—He reaches out and clings tight, pushing them together, bringing his face down to meet his.  
“Cas,” is all he can say, his voice no more than a whisper. Cas’s hands are everywhere, fuck, he can’t think anymore, he just rolls with him, trying to pull into himself, trying to memorize, touch, taste every second that Cas is with him—his eyelashes brushing the inside of his thigh as he kisses down his leg, turning his cheek into the soft skin, and Dean shudders at the touch, groaning at how that soft brush could make him feel like this, destroy him with nothing more than that simple contact.  
Cas crawls back up him, their bodies are flush, and Dean can only focus on Cas’s lips, slightly damp and pink, and Dean bends up to kiss him again.  
Even as he does, he hears Cas’s voice, clear as a bell. Part of his hazy brain wonders how Cas can kiss him and talk at the same time, but as Cas’s tongue circles his own, he stops trying to think.  
 _Dean_ , Cas is whispering as he kisses him deeper. _You know it’s me, Dean, come on, promise me—_  
Cas arches up and Dean gasps, feeling Cas inside him, fuck—he doesn’t remember that happening, but as Cas starts slowly moving, back and forth, he doesn’t ever remember this not happening, he feels as if this has always been his entire existence, the feel of Cas on top of him, his arms trapping him, Dean struggling to get as close as he possibly can, Cas’s heat sinking into his very core.  
 _I need you, Dean, please, say you—_  
Cas never finishes his sentence, shit, Dean’s not sure he even speaks, but the words just flow out of him, without the benefit of speech, they’re just melding together, they’ve reached the point where they don’t need words.  
Dean strains, clasping at Cas’s back, but he only lets out a small shiver as he comes, clutching him tight.  
Cas kisses his face, his eyelids, everything he can reach, and he smiles down at him, an intense joy in his eyes. Dean reaches up—

He wakes, covered in sweat. He sits up, gasping. As he remembers the world, as he realizes where he is, he sinks back into the pillows, trying to catch his breath. No, no, no. Not again. He pushes himself out of the bed and stares numbly at the wall, wishing he could just dig out that part of his brain that created dreams.

He dresses quickly and leaves the crappy motel, walking over to grab breakfast at the equally crappy diner across the street. He praises the inventor of ketchup as he douses his slightly-burnt eggs with a generous amount, stirring it all up until it looks like blood on his plate. He only looks up when he hears the bell on the door rattle, watching the strange souls that pop in to eat breakfast. He vaguely wonders about them as he chews, if the woman sitting by the door alone had a family, if the hobo sitting at the counter begged all day just for this one meal, if the stressed-out-looking family across from him was on their first road trip. He turns back to his eggs. It didn’t do him any good to think about other people. Thinking about other people led to caring about them.  
The phone in his pocket vibrates and he pulls it out, frowning. He doesn’t recognize the number. He flips it open, pressing the cold metal to his ear.  
“Yeah?”  
“Dean?”  
Dean frowns. That was a voice he hadn’t heard in a while.  
“Garth?”  
A rush of static from the other end as he breathes out a happy sigh.  
“How are you, man?”  
Dean rolls his eyes and resists the urge to hang up. He’d probably just call back anyway.  
“Peachy, Garth. What do you want?”  
There’s a brief pause on the other end, but then Garth speaks, deliberately.  
“Well, I heard you were around Kansas again. I hear right?”  
Dean stabs at a piece of sausage, imagining it to be Garth’s head.  
“It’s possible.”  
“Well, uh—I heard some things. About goings on around there.”  
“Did you.” Dean is really not into this conversation.  
“Just thought I’d give you the heads up—some hotshot new hunter people’ve been talking about.”  
“Hmm.”  
“People just know him as James.”  
Dean bites off half of the sausage, mumbling into the receiver through his chews.  
“Sounds terrifying. Why are you telling me?”  
Garth is silent on the other end, and Dean can picture the wheels in his head turning.  
“Figured you’d want to know. I heard he took out a whole nest of vampires. All by himself. Left the last one to spread rumors about him.” He chuckles nervously. “Almost as if he wants to get noticed,” he says haltingly.  
Dean sighs. Even over the phone, he was a shitty liar.  
“Listen, Garth," he says, clenching his hands. "I don’t give a shit about some kid who suddenly thinks he’s a superhero.”  
He makes no effort to hide the disdain in his voice. “Maybe he’s gotten lucky a couple times, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything to worry about.” He throws his fork down. “Don’t fucking bother me with this crap.”  
He slides the phone down into his palm, about to hang up, but the speaker keeps echoing, his voice tinny as he prattles on.  
Dean groans.  
He presses the phone back to his ear. Garth’s still talking.  
“—got a call from Sam, and…well, he said he hadn’t talked to you in a while.”  
Dean clenches his jaw.  
“So. You’re checking up on me for my little brother.”  
“Dean, that’s not—“  
“Goodbye, Garth.”  
He hangs up for real this time, staring at his phone in a moment of irritation before shoving it back into his pocket. Of course he should have expected that Garth would have his number. He had never gotten a new one after…  
Well. He had just never gotten around to getting a new one, is all. Right.  
He finishes up his less-than-satisfying breakfast and throws some money down on the table, pushing out the door and down to the street. He didn’t have time for kid brothers and worried questions. He had work to do.

It’s only when the demon wraps his hands around his neck that Sam’s face drifts back into his mind.  
 _I’ll never see him again._  
The demon’s breath is hot and moist against his cheek as he struggles, but it’s got him in a solid hold, pushing him against the floor. What was wrong with him? Letting a fucking demon get the better of him—  
It laughs, tightening its grip.  
“The infamous older Winchester,” it sneers out, digging sharp fingernails into his skin. “Haven’t caught your scent in a while.” Its black eyes stare at him, dancing. “Where’s the freakishly tall one?”  
Dean spits back, or tries to, because the hand on his neck isn’t letting much air get to his lungs. He can feel his brain shutting down, sliding into blackness from the lack of oxygen.  
“Thought you were dead for a while—“  
He hears it keep seething out vicious words, but he can’t care anymore. It’s only black, black in his mind, in his eyes, in his heart—  
“Hmm.” The demon’s paused, perhaps noting Dean’s lack of resistance, or maybe it was that weird voodoo crap they did, how they seemed to know what he was thinking—  
“Seems like you _are_ dead though,” it says, smirking. “Pining a little bit too much for your angel?”  
Dean snaps out of it, as if from a dream—  
“I'm going to fucking kill you—“  
It smiles, shoving his head back into the dirt, leaning down to whisper in his ear.  
“Poor heartbroken little hunter,” it murmurs, and Dean’s skin crawls, but he’s unable to move. Maybe it knew something, maybe if he could keep him talking—  
“I killed him myself, you know.”  
Dean’s heart drops. _What?_  
The demon continues, knowing that it’s broken him.  
“He begged, he pleaded for mercy, screamed your name—“  
There’s a loud crash as the demon sprawls back, flying across the room and hitting the wall—and Dean is right there, hitting, scratching, punching every part of him he can reach—  
There’s no sound anymore, just a deafening white noise as he hits it, again, and again—  
His knuckles are bloody, the body beneath his hands turning into a quivering heap of flesh, but he can’t stop, he has to keep going, because maybe that would make it not true, he would know it was a lie—  
The knife is right there from where it had been knocked out of his hand earlier—he could reach out a few inches, grab it, stick it now and it would die, but he doesn’t—  
He just keeps going, dropping to his knees as his legs give out, but not stopping for an instant, bones cracking beneath his hands, skin tearing, fire boiling in his blood—  
There’s a red haze over his eyes, it reminds him of Hell, of Alistair—hateful pain that exploded inside of him, boiling over into dangerous.  
 _Who was he anymore?_  
 _Are you any better than the demon possessing that body?_  
The realization snaps him back to reality, and he falls back, gasping. There’s blood everywhere, his clothes soaked, flecks coating his face and he tastes it on his lips, salty and acidic. The demon doesn’t move, probably can’t—its body is so beyond repair, beyond fucking recognition. The sound rushes back into his ears and he can hear it now, its whimpers, his own harsh breath in the cold room.  
He crawls over blindly to Ruby’s knife, fingers sliding over the hilt, smearing it with sticky red.  
It’s a mercy killing, really, Jesus—  
The demon dies with a pitiful moan, and Dean scrambles away. He curls up in the corner, cradling his head in his bloody hands.  
 _Demons lie. They lie, lie, lie._  
It’s a long time before he’s able to stand.

***

Two months pass. He doesn’t hear from Garth, he doesn’t hear from Sam. He doesn’t even hear anything about this stupid James.  
But the words of that demon have taken the place of his dreams, twisted them into nightmares. Now he only saw death. Dead Cas, dead Sam, dead Dean…  
 _Killed him myself_  
He had to believe it wasn’t true. He knew it wasn’t.  
 _Begged, pleaded for mercy_  
So Dean was determined to track all of them down. They were twisted, fucking evil, they all needed to die—  
 _Screamed your name—_  
He had gotten into town late last night and now he was headed out to get a good fix on the demons’ hideout, something to point him in the right direction.  
He does the drill, flashes his badge, but it’s not until the third interview of the morning that he really gets anywhere. The man had been possessed, but of course he had tried to logic it away. Dean had finally weaseled a location out of him, but now the guy wasn’t letting him escape the conversation.  
“I already talked to the police—“  
“I understand that, but this is a different investigation, and just needed to hear it from your point of view, instead of from the report—”  
“How many investigations do you need? They already sent over that other guy.”  
Dean pauses. “What other guy?”  
“Guy like you. Wasn’t wearing a suit though.”  
Dean scratches his cheek. He gestures at him, impatient.  
“Well? What was his name?”  
The man twists his hands. “James. His name was James.”  
Dean narrows his eyes. That fucking name again. He had never heard so much of a whisper of this guy, but first Garth, and now this?  
“James.” He repeats, mouth tightening. He stares at him for a second, but the guy’s silent. He rolls his eyes.  
“He have a last name?”  
“No, just James.”  
“Just James—“ Dean trails off, trying to stifle an irritated laugh. “Well.” He turns away, shoving his badge in his pocket. “Thank you for your time.”  
“But you didn’t even—“  
Dean doesn’t let him finish, he just leaves him on the porch, sliding into the front seat of his car and slamming the door.  
He turns the key, and he thinks about this James.

Stupid-ass name. With some stupid-ass wannabe hero behind it, probably. Dean knew the type. Young kids, the kind who had maybe heard about the life through rumors and had stumbled upon their first hunt, getting lucky, believing they were invincible.

Shit, after Sam had left, there had been a couple that he had run into, fresh faces who wanted an expert to teach them the tricks.

Dean had sent them running home to their mothers.

He didn’t like other hunters. And he rankled, especially at the thought of someone on his territory. These were his demons.

If this douchebag thought Dean was going to be happy about them working the same job, he had another thing coming. He had driven here all the way from fucking Montana—Hell—he was going to kill some goddamn demons.  
Maybe he’d find this James and beat some sense into him. At least that would cheer him up.

He returns back to his motel for a pit stop. He flicks on the lights and stares at his room. He hovers on the doorway for a second. Another motel. Another day. Another hunt.  
He changes out of the Fed suit and slips into his jeans, grabbing a beer and popping the cap off, flicking on the TV, just to have some noise in the room.  
He flips through the pages of Dad’s journal for the millionth time, even though he’s practically got the thing memorized by now. It’s just a reflex at this point.  
The ride is quick and short, an he pulls up to a dilapidated house, killing the engine as he scopes out the place. It looked exactly like the kind of hellhole demons loved to fester in. Dean wonders briefly what the demons did without Crowley, but then he realizes he doesn’t really care. Demons were nothing more than targets. All he cared about was making them dead.  
It’s probably a bad idea, but he slinks down in the seat, allowing himself to close his eyes and drift off for a few lazy minutes. Hell, it was probably downright suicidal, with the demons so close and this new hunter sniffing around. But he was just so tired.

He wakes up—after a dreamless sleep, for once—to darkness. The sun has already disappeared behind the trees, and there’s a quiet stillness around him. He smiles. Time to do what he did best.  
He grips the knife tight as he walks up the front steps, not bothering to be stealthy. This was a big entrance kind of day. He needed that.  
He kicks down the door, diving inside, but nothing comes rushing to greet him. He even pauses in the entryway, just listening. But it’s silent.  
His skin crawls.

He stalks through the house, checking every room, eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. This didn’t smell right to him.  
He rounds another corner and stops dead in his tracks. Five bodies, strewn about the floor. The tables were smashed, chairs knocked over—shit. Someone had done a number on this room. The air reeks of sulfur, and Dean knows this is the group he’s been hunting. He looks around warily before kneeling and reaching out a hand, rolling the nearest body over. It’s definitely a demon—or what’s left of it. Blood is flowing weakly from its neck, the charred edges of the wound raw and angry. He swallows, recognizing the marks. It had been killed by a knife, exactly like the one in his hand.  
Shit.  
He briefly checks the rest of the bodies. They all have similar marks. He looks around warily. If whoever was here had a knife like his…he wasn’t sure what to do. He had never seen another one—hell, they had only gotten theirs from Ruby, and who the fuck knows where she got it.  
A gust of wind blows through the room, and the back of his neck prickles.  
The air felt stiff. Dangerous.  
He whirls as the light above him goes out, plunging the room into darkness. Dean immediately sinks into a crouch, backing against the wall, clutching the knife close to him.  
The only sound is the groan of the old house—that, and Dean’s own anxious breath. He closes his eyes as he tries to quiet himself, listening.  
Wind. The distant cry of a hawk. Then—

The floorboard to his left creaks. He tenses.

The shadow leaps at him, but he blocks it at the last minute, spinning around and bringing his knife hand around. The sharp hiss of the blade stings his ears as metal meets metal, and Dean throws it off, preparing for the next attack. It comes quickly, and he darts back, the tip inches away from his chest. As he dodges, his eyes adjust, and now he can see the dim outline of his attacker, a shiny silver blade clenched tight in his hand.  
Dean lunges, feinting to the right, at the last second dipping to the left and coming up for a swift strike. The shadow man whirls, twisting Dean’s wrist until his grip loosens, the knife clattering to the floor. Shit, why was he so goddamn rusty? First that demon, and now this asshole? Fuck—  
Without his weapon, his attacker hits him, sending him flying. Before he knows it, he’s pinned on his back and the sharp edge of a knife is digging into his throat.  
 _This is it_ , he thinks. _I’m going to die._  
His attacker leans in close, a beam of moonlight falling across his face, and Dean’s stomach drops.

“Cas?” He croaks out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living beyond your years  
> Acting out all their fears  
> You feel it in your chest  
> Your hands protect the flames  
> From the wild winds around you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done, done, done.  
> Love you all, you're so sweet for putting up with me.
> 
> Happy Season 9!

“Cas?” he stutters out again, wincing at the needy tone in his voice.

 

Those eyes flare in shock, and Dean feels the weight lift off him, the blade removed from his neck.

There’s a brief pause as he stumbles back—a tense silence before light flickers into the room. Cas’s hand is on the light switch, but his eyes are fixed on Dean.

He stares at him for a moment, gaping.

Dean’s head is swimming, trying to figure out what’s happening, what’s going on—

“What are you doing here?”

Cas’s voice is harsh, hardened by years of solitude and loneliness. It shocks through him, hard and callous. Jesus, he couldn’t remember that voice being so perfect—

His mind is racing, thoughts nothing but a jumbled blur. There’s so much to say, so much to ask, but he can’t fucking think.

“Me?” Dean snarls, cringing even as he does so. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He wants to punch himself. First time seeing him again, and that’s what he manages to say?

 

Cas is breathing heavily, the fight still fresh in his body, his arms flexing as he grips his knife.

It’s silent, too silent, and Dean doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Shit, he could run away again, he could disappear—

“You going by James now?” He blurts out, and he flinches.

Stupid. Stupid.

Cas doesn’t answer right away, and now that the shock of his reappearance has ebbed away, Dean gets the chance to look at him properly. He doesn’t think he’d recognize him if he saw him on the street—his hair is longer, messy, his lean body hidden beneath a worn leather jacket, not too different from Dean’s own, and he was wearing a fucking _thigh holster_ , for Christ’s sake. Dean chokes down a thick breath. Just the sight of him, shit—

He feels his body respond, and he mentally curses, wishing he could focus on anything else. Focus on anything besides the shape of his lips, the taper of Cas’s neck as it disappears underneath his shirt, or the way those jeans really suited him—

_Fuck_

No.

 

Jesus. What was _wrong_ with him?

 

“It was a…tribute of sorts.” Cas says flatly, his voice breaking through the haze. He spins the knife in his hand, jamming it back into the sheath on his belt. Dean follows the movement, his throat feeling like desert sand.

He looks up, vaguely realizing that Cas has answered him, but he can’t think of anything to say. Cas is still staring at him, his blue eyes hard and unrelenting.

“Where did you get that?”

Another stupid question. But that’s all he can do, all Dean can do is make him talk, make sure he doesn’t leave again.

Cas doesn’t smile.

“The knife?” He narrows his eyes, fixing Dean with that familiar squint, then lets out a sour laugh.

“All those years—and you never thought about doing a little research,” he sneers. He crosses his arms, eyes darting up.

“It only took a couple of books and I figured out how to make one.”

He reaches down, grabbing a black bag from the ground.

“I would say I’m surprised you never thought of it—“ He mutters, straightening. “But then again, I’m really not.”

 

Even through the shock, the surprising happiness boiling through him at seeing him again, Dean rankles. Remembering the way he could get so harsh, so vicious—it made the anger flare up, made him want to hit him, strike him, make him feel anything—

Cas turns abruptly, shouldering his pack and stalking out the door. Dean starts and runs after him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He snaps, falling into step beside him.

“There’s no threat here anymore. Moving on.” Cas snarls back, not looking at him as he paces through the twisting hallways.

Dean grabs his elbow and yanks him back, stopping him.

“Anything you want to explain first?” He growls. “Or perhaps fucking apologize for?”

Cas doesn’t move. He darts his eyes up to Dean’s face briefly before they drop back down to the ground.

“Dean—“

“No.”

Hearing his voice slide over his name, all gruff and smooth, fuck—it almost made Dean forget. He was seconds away from wrapping his arms around him, from kissing him—

But then the past three years flood back—all the hurt, the pain, the anger, nights filled with silent crying and longing, and Dean has to yell.

“You think you can just fuck me like that and leave—no note, no nothing—“

Cas closes his eyes, shaking his head.

“Cas—I was going out of my mind.”

Dean's voice wavers, and he can’t help but tell him the truth.

“I thought you were dead.”

Castiel exhales, still refusing to look at him.

“Trust me, it’s better this way," he mutters.

Dean clenches his hands, his whole body reeling. No, he wasn’t going to do this to him, not again—

“Trust you?” He gets out, trying to reach into that past Dean, the one who wasn’t affected by anything, the one who was brave and steadfast and indifferent—

“I don’t think so. You owe me a goddamn explanation.”

Castiel starts walking again.

“I don’t owe you anything.” He snarls over his shoulder, and Dean almost hits him right there.

They spill out of the house, Dean chasing after him, ready to fucking tackle him if he has to, if he tries to get away, when he sees Cas freeze, suddenly motionless in the dark night.

Another demon, standing in front of them, a gun trained on Castiel’s heart.

 

Dean’s stomach drops.

“Hey there, boys,” she hushes out. Her hands are shaking.

Cas’s fingers twitch, inching towards his own weapon.

“Don’t even think about it,” she hisses. There’s a trickle of blood running down her face.

Dean’s heartbeat is in his ears.

“Thought you’d killed me, didn’t you?” She sneers through bloody teeth. “Thought you could just flash in, take us all out—“

Dean takes a cautious step forward and she wheels, pointing the weapon at him.

“Back off.”

Dean raises his hands even as he slowly inches forward, trying to get in between her and Cas.

“Guns?” Dean sneers, putting on his brave face. He can feel the hot burn of Cas’s gaze on his back.  “That’s low, even for you.”

The demon growls, her black eyes gleaming in the dull light.

“Suppose so.” She cocks the gun. “But a girl’s gotta defend herself.”

She isn’t fucking around. She must know she’s done for, knows she doesn’t have a chance—

That’s when Cas darts to the side, and Dean sees the movement out of the corner of his eye—a sharp crack ringing out in the still night. Dean tenses, expecting pain as the sound of the gunshot reverberates through his ears, but he feels nothing. Cas has her in his grip, the gun lying abandoned. Must’ve been a stray shot—

Dean rushes up, kicks the gun away, and Cas throws him the knife in a practiced move. He snatches it from the air and sticks her with it, twisting it into her neck. She dies with a whimper, and Cas stumbles back, shoving back from the corpse. Dean allows himself a triumphant smile as he stands, panting. He turns—

He freezes, his heart seized by an icy fear.

Cas is kneeling, hunched over. His hand is clamped over his side, red leaking through his fingers.

Dean runs over to him, fingers scrabbling.

“Son of a bitch—Cas—come here—“

“I’m fine—get off me—“

“You are not fine, Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding all over—“

Dean hauls him up, slinging an arm over his shoulder. Cas tries to resist at first, but eventually sinks against him, his face pale.

“It’s okay, Cas, it’s okay, you’re gonna be fine—“ He babbles as he fumbles with the keys to his car, dropping them.

“Shit—“

Cas falls against the door of the Impala, eyes closed as he breathes, hand still locked tight around his side. Dean reaches out a hand.

“Hey. You with me?”

Cas opens his eyes, glaring at him.

He inhales. “She just clipped me. It’s nothing.”

Dean grits his teeth. Goddamn stubborn bastard—

He wrenches open the door, staring him down. Cas just looks at him, his face unreadable.

Dean gestures.

“Well?” He asks. “You gonna get in this time?”

Something like the ghost of a grin flits across Cas’s face, but it’s gone in an instant. He hesitates for a second—then slides into the front seat, shutting the door behind him. Dean runs around to the other side, revving up the engine and tearing away from the dark house, speeding back down the highway.

It’s too silent in the car. Dean keeps glancing over at him, but Cas is determinedly staring straight ahead, breathing evenly as he holds his side. Dean’s fingers twitch. Shit, he couldn’t do this to him, not now—he couldn’t die on him, not when they had finally found each other again—

Dean shakes his head. He was overreacting. It was just a scratch. He would be fine. He would patch him up, and he would be fine.

 

Cas shifts in his seat and breathes in, harshly. Dean’s eyes flick over to him.

“You okay?” It’s the first words they’ve spoken since they got in the car.

Cas still doesn’t look at him. “I’ve had worse.”

Dean tightens his grip on the leather underneath his fingers.

“I’ll help you.”

“I’m fine.

“Fine, my ass. You’re probably going to need stitches—”

“I can do it myself.”

Dean slams a hand against the wheel.

“Dammit, Cas—” He shouts. “Will you let me take care of you for once?”

Cas doesn’t respond, but his mouth tightens, his silence thick and heavy in the air of the car.

Dean presses down on the accelerator, fuming.

 

They don’t speak again, not when Dean pulls into the parking lot of his motel, not even when Cas allows himself to be hauled inside and sat down on the bed.

Dean gets the med kit and sits down next to him.

“Let me see.“

He peels away Cas’s hand from his side, his fingers slipping a little over the slick material of his blood-soaked shirt. The demon had missed actually hitting him, thank god, but the bullet had grazed his side, slicing him up pretty good. Dean inspects him, sighing in relief. It was mostly just blood. He’d be fine.

Despite all his earlier protests, Cas sits there silently as Dean helps him out of his jacket and his shirt. He doesn’t even flinch when Dean starts on the stitches, slowly tugging the thread back and forth.

 

Cas's scent is deep in his nose, a soft cottony smell tinged with blood and oil, something like the road after rain, or the barrel of a gun. Dean shakes himself a little, electing to concentrate on the stitches instead of the heat of Cas’s skin underneath his hands.

He swallows heavily.

Focus, Winchester.

Cas starts leaning away from him, his fingers patting down his jacket.

“Sit still,” Dean snaps.

Cas leans back sulkily, but with the object of search clasped in his hand.

He flicks open the flask and takes a deep pull. Dean looks up, raising an eyebrow. Castiel notices his judgmental glare, but he only takes another drink.

“Relax,” he says, wiping his mouth.  “I haven’t been considered clinically alcoholic in a while.”

Dean tries to focus on the stitches, but Cas’s words have made his head whirl.

_In a while?_

 

He goes back to his work, but after a while his eyes start to wander. His gaze roams over Cas's entire body, drifting to his back. He had briefly noticed it earlier when he had basically stripped him of his clothes—but Dean had been more focused on making sure he didn’t fucking bleed all over the place.

But now, with the methodical practice of pulling the thread back and forth occupying his fingers, Dean’s eyes wander to the dog tags around his neck, the fine lettering across his back, the spread of his shoulders, dark tattoos—heavy in contrast against his skin.

Dean swallows and looks up—to see him looking back.

Fuck—he had caught him staring.

 

Dean’s cheeks burn and he quickly turns back to the needle in his hand.

“Those are new,” he says, trying to sound indifferent as he pulls another stitch.

Cas sniffs.

“Couldn’t exactly carve them into my ribs, now, could I?”

Dean smiles at that. Castiel sees the slight upward curve of his lips, and his heart clenches.

He feels so strange. The reemergence of Dean into his life—it was unexpected. He never though he’d have to explain himself, that’d he’d ever see him again. But now that he was here, and that Castiel wants to, he’s not really sure what to say. He isn’t sure he even had a reason—a reason that would make Dean forgive him.

Castiel takes another drink from the flask. After what he’d experienced in his brief human life span, the whiskey seemed tame. It helped with the burn, with the dull ache in his side, helped calm the rush inside his head. He swallows, trying to ignore the gentle tugging sensation in his side. He’s had worse, hell, he’d even been shot a couple of times. Usually he would have just slapped some tape over it and kept going, but this…this was different.

He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he likes it, likes Dean taking care of him, feeling the gentle press of his hands against his side. It tweaked his heart with a vague notion of hope, that Dean still cared, that he still wanted him.

Dean finishes the last stitch, tying a knot and snapping the thread with a pair of scissors. Castiel feels him put on the bandages, gauze, who the fuck knows what else. His side felt good—better than he had in a long time. But inside he was boiling, and he felt like he might throw up. He didn’t know what to do, what could he do—

“Well, looks like you owe me now.”

Dean’s voice is frank, solid. He puts the kit away and turns to him, crossing his arms.

“I don’t—“

“Explanation, Cas. I just saved your fucking life, you could at least let me know what the hell happened to you.”

Castiel takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

It had been the hardest decision of his life.

It reminded him of Purgatory, which now seemed like a lifetime ago—the decision to leave, to separate himself from Dean.

He didn’t want to hurt him, but the way they were then, it was suffocating, and he just had to get out.

The idea had been boiling in his mind for a while—that his presence was nothing short of dangerous, that he would have to leave. Because he was poisonous. He was toxic. The hole he had slipped into, of drugs and drink and self-loathing—he knew he couldn’t crawl back out. And it would only get them killed. He had already put himself in danger. How long would it be before it was Dean? How long before one of them died—and Castiel would be left with blood on his hands?

And the only thing that had kept him sane—Dean—they were nothing but a snarled mess of pain back in those days, screaming at each other, desperate to hurt, to lash out, wanting to do anything but admit the truth—

But then he came to him, saying words he never thought he would hear, and Castiel was too weak to shove him back.

He didn’t believe him. He didn’t believe him when Dean pushed up tight around him, as he held him in his arms and whispered those traitorous words against his neck.

_I love you._

It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be telling the truth.

It had to be some desire to keep him close, some selfish need, some other way Dean could use him. There was no way he could truly love him.

Castiel didn’t deserve it.

But he was weak. He let Dean touch him, he let Dean grip him with bruising fingers, he had loved him back. He caressed his skin and pressed kisses into his hair, all because he had no control. He couldn’t help himself.

He should have kicked him out, should have refused him, because he had already resigned himself to leaving. And he knew that if they did this, Dean would only hurt more.

But he couldn’t. He needed Dean, needed him like he needed air, and he fell into his embrace like he fell into humanity—desperate, wanting, hopeless.

That morning was the day Castiel died.

He crawled out of the bed, out of Dean’s warm embrace, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He had packed silently, collecting his clothes, moving across the room like a ghost, desperate not to wake him. He laid the motel key on the table beside the bed.

It took everything in him to close that door, to pull himself away from Dean and not look back.

He wasn’t really sure how he managed it, but he found a bus station, bought a ticket for the train that was leaving soonest, and he ended up on his way to Portland. Castiel sunk into the seat, closing his eyes, focusing on the soft rumble of the engine, trying to think of anything but Dean.

He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t know what to do. All he could do was go.

There were so many things to try. There were so many substances in the world that beckoned, lured him in with promises of forgetting, of new truths, of new life. His new human consciousness was a bright, imperfect thing, but it could be stretched, pushed, pulled, prodded in ways he had never imagined.

It was like falling into the sun.

 

He spent months like that, on the road, begging for scraps, working for whatever coins he could manage. It wasn’t until he had his first real brush with death—too much rum—that he realized what had become of him. He had found himself vomiting in a back alley, passing out in his own sick, coming to a day later when a homeless man nudged him with his foot, asking him if he was alright.

That’s when he realized it had to change. He couldn’t go on like this any longer.

Rehab changed him, it had twisted his hardened soul into something more manageable, something easier to face in those early mornings when he stared at the sunrise, contemplating himself, his life.

He had gotten back into hunting, had modeled himself after Dean, even if he didn’t want to admit it—and he had become ruthless and efficient, almost as dangerous as when he was an angel.

He hadn’t heard anything about Dean, about his life, but he had looked Sam up in a moment of weakness, spied on him from afar. That’s all he ever really wanted for them anyway. A normal life.

 

He finishes his sad explanation, and the room is quiet. Dean isn’t looking at him. Castiel sighs. He hadn’t expected him to listen, to understand—

 

“Do you really think that?”

Cas turns, surprised to see Dean’s face closer than he expected, staring into him.

“You really didn’t believe me?”

He sees Cas swallow, and he shudders.

“Because I still do,” he manages to get out, eyes tense and anxious.

His blood is boiling, he can’t read Cas’s face—fuck—he was such a mystery to him, he always had been, and Dean had just handed him his heart again, bearing himself in the exact way he swore he never would.

Castiel can’t lie.

“Me too.” He whispers, and Dean stops. “I always did.”

He doesn’t move away. He turns, shifting on the bed, and tentatively reaches out, taking his hand. Dean’s heart is pounding. Cas pulls him around until they’re facing each other, with nowhere to run. Cas brings up a hand to his cheek, and Dean melts into the touch. Cas holds there, just looking at him. Dean swallows. He just wanted to dive into him, to crush his body against his own and lose himself in the heat of it all. But Cas wouldn’t let him. He was frozen, he was hypnotized by that blue gaze, his breath shallow as Cas gently swipes his thumb across the bone of his cheek, not blinking. His fingers trace down his jaw, then up, brushing the scar above his eye, the concern clear on his face. Dean shudders out a breath.

Dean curls his fingers into the chain around Cas’s neck, clutching the dog tags, to have anything to grab on to. But Cas stops, looking down at the metal clasped in Dean’s hand. He closes his eyes, breathing deep, like he had forgotten the thin chain around his neck. Dean frowns, and he looks down at the tags.

“James Novak,” he reads in a whisper. Underneath, scribbles etched into the steel—numbers, blood type, religion.

Looking at those two small pieces of metal in his hand, his throat clenches.

Because as far as the world was concerned, he wasn’t Castiel. He wasn’t special. He was some guy from Illinois, just another man out of millions—with a number to pick him out in the system, so when they found him they would have an I.D., a family to contact, instead of slapping on a label of “John Doe” and dumping him in an unmarked grave.

Dean shudders. He doesn’t want to think about Cas dying, fuck—He had already done too much of that, seen it in his dreams over a thousand times—

He wants to rip the chain from around his neck, and he almost does, when the writing on the second tag catches his eye.

_Dean Winchester_

Followed by his phone number, and _please contact_ written underneath.

“My name.” His voice is numb.

Cas opens his eyes, meeting his gaze.

“I would have wanted you to know,” he swallows, his whole body tightening. He looked like he didn’t want to think about it either. “You know, if—“

“No—“

Dean clutches at him desperately, the only thing he could manage, because no, no, he couldn’t ever leave him, not again, not again.

“You’re not gonna die, Cas, you can’t—“

Dean sits up, pulling him close, the traitorous dog tags cold in between the press of their bodies. He holds him, just holds him, Cas is still in his arms at first—and that’s the angel Dean knows, the awkward stiff being that never knew how to respond to Dean’s embrace—

But finally Cas wraps around him, hugging him tight, whispering in his ear.

“I know, Dean, I know—“

He kisses him, again, again, and again.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—“

He lays him back down easy, not leaving him for a second.

“It’s okay, I’m here now—“

“Cas—“

He wipes away the tears that had been threatening to fall from his eyes, and Cas holds him, shushing him, telling him over and over that it was fine, it was okay, he was here. Dean clings to him, never wanting to let go. Everything was rushing around him, the shock of seeing him again, the heat of the hunt, the thrill in his blood, he just needed to feel him again—

“Cas,” he pants, struggling towards him. “Just fucking touch me—“’

“Dean—“

“Please. God, please, I’m losing it—“

Dean clasps his hands around his neck and kisses him, Cas finally parting his lips and letting Dean sweep his tongue in, and _god,_ how he had missed that, Cas’s mouth underneath his own. It felt so familiar, so right, so good, and Dean just wanted to do everything to him.

It was weird, it was so strange, but that same strangeness made it good—Cas hadn’t promised him anything, Dean didn’t know what they were going to do, but they were finally touching again, after all these years, and now everything else just didn’t seem to matter. It was so slow it was almost agonizing. Dean was trying to rein himself in, but Cas made him irrational, he made him want to just go, to feel everything, intensely hot, now, now, now. But Cas’s hands were strong against him, and they pressed him back when he got a little too rough, they seized at his hair and warned him when he was getting too intense.

He wraps his arms around him, intending to kiss him even harder, more fiercely, but Cas stops him, panting as he pulls away.

“Dean—“ He gasps out, his eyes dark and wild.

“Cas—” He wraps around him. “What do you want? I’ll give it to you, tell me what you want—“

It was stupid to say, fucking stupid, and he sounded so goddamn desperate. Those childish words slid out, and he wanted to curl into himself and die after hearing how he sounded, so pathetic and ruined. He must have imagined the gleam in Cas’s eyes, the edge of want in his kisses. He was going to leave him again. Because he always left. No, no, not this time—he couldn’t, not again—

Dean tries to arch up, press his lips against him, but Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s hair and forces him back.

 “You.” He says, staring into him. “I want you, Dean.”

Dean swallows, a bolt running through him. His heart was threatening to leap out of his chest, and he can only nod in response as Cas pushes him back onto the bed, climbing on top of him as gently as possible. Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he looks up at him, and Cas just stares back. His palms are planted on his chest, and the bandages on his side were holding tight, even though they were covering his skin, and—oh, and it was a tragedy to cover up that skin—but, fuck. It just made him hotter. His hair is hanging down in messy spikes, and he doesn’t look away as he slowly rocks his hips forward, just once, before settling back.

Holy _shit._

Dean’s whole body is burning with a slow simmering heat, even though they’re wearing way too much fucking clothing right now, but the roll of Cas’s hips against his own is enough. Cas runs his hands down to his stomach and back up to his chest, but he doesn’t move again.

Dean is whimpering. “Cas, come _on_ —“

He wants Cas to break him apart, to devastate him, until he doesn’t remember how to breathe.

But Cas fixes him with that firm gaze and Dean quiets, sucking in his breath. Cas’s hands smooth down over his shirt again, fingers curling around the hem and pushing it up, his hands pressing into the soft skin of Dean’s stomach. He tenses underneath him, the flesh beneath sensitive as his hands move up, pushing beneath the fabric, and Dean wordlessly raises his arms, lets Cas pull the shirt off from around his head. Cas throws it to the side, bringing his hands back to touch skin. God, he was sure taking his fucking time, wasn’t he? Then he rolls his hips again, catching Dean by surprise, and he gasps, jerking up at the touch.

Cas tilts his head up, the silent question in his eyes. Dean can only nod.

Castiel pushes back, leaning back on his heels as he works with the zipper of Dean’s jeans, shrugging them off unhurriedly, before doing the same to his own. He strips off all their clothes, underwear, socks, shoes, somehow those were still on—and then he crawls back on top of him, pressing their hips together. Dean controls himself this time, but a soft ruined moan escapes his lips as their cocks brush together, and he reaches out his arms, struggling to find something to grab onto. He finally finds the edge of the bed and clings to it as Cas easily rolls his hips back and forth, lingering.

Their first time had been so rough, so desperate, but now Cas was soft and gentle, calm and kind as he awakened every part of him. Maybe Cas was remembering that hurried night, maybe he wants to savor this too, because they didn’t know what their world would be like afterwards.

He smoothes his hand down Dean’s thigh, pulling his leg up so he can slot more fully in between them, but he wants to get closer, so he kisses him again, hooking his arms underneath him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head as they move together. Dean’s hands drift to his back, deftly avoiding the bandages on his side, skittering erratically over his skin until he decides to curl up around his back, gripping tight to his shoulders. His fingers brush over his skin, wet and wanting, sweat and spit mingling as they tangle together. It’s dirty, it’s hard, it’s downright embarrassing the way they’re twisting against each other, but Dean doesn’t fucking care. Cas is just so fucking good, he’s so perfect, everything about him is unbelievable, and Dean doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand how he finally got back here, after all these years, after he thought he’d never see him again. He almost thinks he’s dreaming again, that he’s locked up in his head, drawing out his very own perfect fantasy. Because the way Cas was touching him right now—how he instinctively seemed to know exactly what he wanted, where his body needed a gentle touch, a scrape of fingernails, a lick of the tongue to send him spiraling higher—fuck—it didn’t seem real. He had never felt so in tune with someone before, so undeniably _together_ the way he and Cas were. They barely had to talk, they just knew exactly what the other wanted. There was no pretending, there was no faking it. Even Cas’s less than graceful maneuvers fucking sent fire through him, god, just everything about him made him want to burst. It was fucking mortifying—he thinks he could probably come just from Cas whispering in his ear, but his hands were even better. And his lips. Oh god, his lips.

He closes his eyes, groaning as Cas kisses his temple, his cheek, tonguing down over the line of his jaw.

He retreats, hanging over him, just staring. Dean licks his lips and Castiel sighs out a ruined breath, almost forgetting himself. It was so vulnerable, he was bewitched by that green gaze, he was ripping him open with his eyes.

“Please, Cas.”

He doesn’t have to ask, but Cas knows—he nods, kissing him once before retreating. And as Cas sinks into him, the first finger slowly pushing inside, Dean tenses, then releases, letting out his breath in a rush. He didn’t want to fucking cry right now, not again, he wanted to just concentrate on Cas inside him, hot and sweet, all tongue and slickness.

It works—the thoughts fly out of his head, there’s only Cas and his body, the bed beneath them, and the gentle press of his fingers.

“Goddamnit, you don’t know what you do to me, you really don’t—“

He can’t think, he can’t remember why they hadn’t ever done this before that first night, he doesn’t remember how they ever could be angry when they both needed each other—so bad, so much. He didn’t even fucking care that he had left, he could forgive Cas everything, he always did. He just doesn’t want this to be the last time, he doesn’t want this to be the end.

It feels like it’s been hours, and he can’t stand it any longer, he needs him right now, god, he needs him so bad—

“Come on, Cas, come on—“

And he nods, whispering soft words, but Dean doesn’t even know what he’s saying, he can’t hear anything anymore. Even as Cas runs his hands down his sides, laying him out, making sure he was as comfortable as possible. Cas is gentle, he’s being so gentle and Dean doesn’t fucking deserve it—

He had wanted to be mad at him after he had disappeared, he wanted to hate him—because being angry was better than looking closer and knowing that it was him who pushed Cas away in the first place.  It was all his fault. It was always his fault.

Cas cradles him in his arms, pushing in slowly, his breath shuddering out, hot against Dean’s chest. Dean holds his breath as Cas settles inside him, and they’re frozen for a brief moment—

Then Cas curls around him, thrusting slowly, and Dean moans, his whole body sparking.

 _Fuck_ , is all he can think as Cas covers him with his entire body, delving into him, wiping his mind as he presses deeper, his strong arms pressing Dean down, swallowing him whole.

"Cas—"

It’s so slow, it’s unbearable, as Cas moves inside him, as he presses his cheek into his neck. They had shoved and punched, they had fought, laughed, cried—but now they were tender, trying to whisper and lick their way to some sort of forgiveness.

There’s only the sound of them in the still air of the motel, hushed gasps and stuttered breaths as the fire builds, as Cas ignites inside him, pulling him apart from the inside out.

Cas grips his cheek and kisses him, opening his eyes to stare into Dean. They get lost for a moment, and Dean has to turn away, because it’s too open, too much, too everything. He didn’t want to think right now, he didn’t want to come to some realization that they were broken and they could never work—

“Look at me,” Cas growls, and it feels like it’s been years since he’s heard that voice, gruff with an edge on pained desire. Dean doesn’t even think about disobeying, he snaps his eyes back to him, his breath hitching as Cas slows, curving a hand around the back of his neck.

Dean drags him down, bringing his lips to meet his. He sighs his name, all soft and secretive against his teeth, before arching back as Cas moves again, moaning.

 

Castiel feels himself weakening, his muscles shuddering and loosening with the effort as he pushes Dean towards his breaking point, as he tries to push him, to urge him forward.

So when Dean comes, his whole body shivering, Castiel holds him, pressing kisses to his neck, trying to reassure him, trying to show him he is loved, so loved.

Dean sinks back down, his whole body straining against his, and he clutches him tighter, just holding him.

“Please,” he mumbles, barely audible. “Please, don’t leave, just stay, all I’ve ever wanted was for you to stay…”

He goes limp in his arms, perhaps overwhelmed by it all, by everything, and still Castiel holds him, curling around him, sinking down next to him on the bed.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispers softly, and he closes his eyes.

 

Dean wakes again, and for a second, he’s terrified.

This was too familiar, too fucking painfully familiar—

He practically wrenches himself around to stare at the other side of the bed, panting—

But he meets Cas’s eyes, staring back.

“Dean?” He props himself up on his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re here,” he breathes, unable to believe it.

Cas tilts his head. “You don’t want—“

“No—fuck, of course not—“ Dean reaches out his hand. “I just…” He chokes out an anxious laugh. “I didn’t think you’d—“ He stops, not sure what to say.

Cas looks down.

“You asked me to stay.”

Dean swallows.

“So, I stayed.”

His lips find his, and he wraps a hand around his neck. He didn’t know what was going to happen, the thought that they could ever fucking live happily ever was just so ridiculous—

“What now?”

He didn’t want to ask, but did anyway, and now he was terrified, because he doesn’t know what Cas will say.

Cas is silent for a long time.

“Well,” he meets his eyes. “What do you want?”

Dean melts.

“You, Cas.”

He smiles.

“I just want you.”

 


End file.
